


The Family-verse

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, All-Human, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 16:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After touring with his band, Spike suddenly drops back into his brother’s life, only to find that Xander’s changed in unexpected ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All-human AU, brother!kink.

The loud banging on the door wakes Xander out of a sound sleep.  
  
Grabbing his baseball bat, he shuffles out of his bedroom, into the main room, to his front door. Looks out the peephole.  
  
With a grin, he unlocks the deadbolt, baseball bat falling to the floor, forgotten. He’s just opening the door when it slams inward, nearly taking off his nose. A compact body in leather and denim hurls itself at him enthusiastically.  
  
“You miserable little fucker! How the hell are you?”  
  
“I’m - great, Spike! But for the lack of oxygen, I’m gravy.”  
  
“My big little brother can’t take a simple hug?” Spike lets go of Xander, grinning. “Getting soft, are we? All this easy living spoiled ya, then?”  
  
Xander rolls his eyes. “Yes, living in the Bronx has indeed spoiled me rotten. Now I know how Louis XIV felt.” He looks Spike over. Same pale face that’s all blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and pouty mouth. Same ancient leather duster, tight acid wash jeans and torn band t-shirt. The platinum hair was new, as were the eyebrow ring and - yep, a tongue stud. Facial piercings and platinum hair. . . not for the first time, Xander wonders if there was a look his brother  _can’t_  pull off.   
  
“Get in here, man, before the cockroaches try to follow you in.”  
  
Spike grabs his grungy looking duffel bag and guitar case and steps in, looking around. “Y’ last place was nicer.”  
  
“My last place was the one we had together. In case you’d forgotten. Couldn’t afford it by myself.” Xander locks and double-checks the door then steps back into the main room. Spike is already spread out on the couch, duffel on the chipped, secondhand coffee table, guitar case next to it.  
  
“As I remember, Angel was still staying there, at the time. He coulda easily carried my half of the rent.” Spike’s burrowing into the pillows, trying to toe off his Docs, which are still tied. Xander goes over and begins untying them.  
  
“Ta, mate.”  
  
“No prob. And as  _you_  may remember, me and Brood-boy? Not so much with the getting along.” One shoe off, showing a holey sock that has seen cleaner days. “You honestly didn’t expect him to  _want_  to keep living with his ex-boyfriend’s little brother. I mean - can you say  _cock-block_?”  
  
“And who’s been teaching you such naughty, grown-up words, pet? Not His Brooding Magnificence, surely?” Spike opens tired, amused blue eyes to regard Xander, who’s working on the second shoe. The laces are matted and spliced together.  
  
“Uh - actually, it was you, Spike. Jeez, a little help here, man. Pull your foot out.”  
  
“Tosser.” But Spike pulls his foot out of the shoe. No sock on this one. Xander doesn’t even ask.  
  
“So, why are you back in town?  _The Slayer_  dump you?” Xander lifts Spike’s legs and sits on the couch. Spike immediately puts his feet in Xander’s lap.  
  
“Not hardly.  _I_  dumped  _them_ , I’ll have you know. Bleedin’ chick band. And that  _Buffy_  - dunno what her sodding problem is, bossing everyone around. Drummer’s supposed to be in the background, not giving orders like General Stupidbitch.”  
  
“Spike -”  
  
“And Red was no help, always taking  _her_  side. Faith - well, good shag, that one, keeps her nose out of the squabbles. Oz - “ Spike frowned. “Guess he’s the strong silent type. Never said peep to anyone but Red.”  
  
“You slept with  _Faith_? I thought you had a thing for Buffy -”  
  
“Fuck no! Pale, skinny blondes are Angel’s thing.”  
  
“Obviously - ouch!” Xander glares at Spike, whose eyes are closed again. The kick to Xander’s chest had been dead on, however.  
  
“Wouldn’t fuck the General for all the money in the world. Looks like she’d put a hurtin’ on your naughties, that one. And Angel never did get over her totally. ‘S what broke  _us_  up, you know?”  
  
“I thought it was your sleeping around that did that.” Xander’s grinning. Hasn’t done much of that since Spike left. Feels weird and wonderful to do it now.  
  
“Couldn’t have been; told him I wasn’t the settling down type, didn’t I? Anyway, old news. Tell me something new. What’ve you been up to? Still with that weird girl you were so hot and heavy with?”  
  
Xander snorts bitterly. “She left me when she got a look at my new place. Anya's long gone.”  
  
“Fuck her, then. Can’t see when she’s got herself a quality catch? Then fuck her. Stupid bint. Anybody new?”  
  
Xander blushes, shrugs. “Sort of. Nothing serious, really, just a - convenience thing. Kinda on-again/off-again. Mostly off.”  
  
“Ugh, bad news, that. Never works. Constant sex is the glue of a relationship. That’s  _my_  philosophy.”  
  
“That and ‘shoplifting isn’t a real crime’.”  
  
“Never get caught, do I?”  
  
Spike grins so charmingly, despite his disapproval, Xander returns it.  
  
“I’ve missed you a lot, Wil.”  
  
“You, too, Xan. Feels like it’s been longer than a year.”  
  
“It’s been fourteen months, two weeks and. . . three days,” Xander says softly, looking down at Spike’s feet, which he’s been rubbing absently. He stops.  
  
“Don’t stop, felt good.” Spike sighs. “Got magic hands, you do.”  
  
“Sensualist.” But Xander starts rubbing again. “So, how long you in town for?”  
  
“Well. . . I’m sick of travelling for the next little while. Was hoping I could crash with you till I get my own place. Can’t stay with dad, can I?”  
  
“You could.”  
  
“ _Wouldn’t_. I know how you feel about him. Lord knows you got reason. I want to be somewhere you feel comfortable coming to see me.” Xander’s still looking at Spike’s slightly grubby feet, but he can feel his brother’s gaze on his face like warm sunshine.  
  
“Is he still with Ethan?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. And that one hasn’t mellowed with age at all, let me tell you. When the band was in London, I stopped by for supper. Dad asked. Ethan was -  _Ethan_. Dunno if you remember how he was -”  
  
“I remember.”  
  
Now Spike’s gaze feels like a weight.  
  
“Yeah, well, he’s like that times ten. Dunno what dad sees in him, why he chose that blighter over mum, but it’s his life, he’s the one who has to live with his mistake.”  
  
Xander doesn’t agree, but they’ve had this argument before. He doesn’t want to have it again, not when he’s with Spike for the first time in over a year.  
  
“Xan, keep doing that and you’ll never get me off this couch. Christ, I’m tired!”  
  
“Can’t sleep till you’ve had a shower, Stinky. Come on. You’ll feel better and I’ll let you sleep in nice and late tomorrow,” Xander wheedles.  
  
“But I just showered - what’s today?”  
  
“You know, the fact that you need a calendar to figure out the last time you showered says you need another. As does the funky European aroma you’ve got going on. You’ve been on the Continent, too long; forgotten the merits of roll-on deodorant and scented fabric softener.” Xander pushes Spike’s feet off his lap and stands up, stretching.  
  
“Fuck you. Hey, think you could make me a cuppa?”  
  
“As long as you don’t want anything harder than plain old coffee. Can’t make it Irish for you, I’m afraid.”  
  
“If coffee’s all you got, sure. So tired the caffeine won’t keep me up. And how can you  _not_  have tea? Even bagged tea, deplorable as  _that_  is? You’re a piss-poor Englishman.”  
  
“This is true. Must be due to the fact that I’m not English.” Xander walks into the kitchen partition. “By the time you’re done showering, the coffee should be done.”  
  
“He hinted, none too obliquely.” Spike sits up, stands up. Flops back down tiredly. “Luv, carry me to the bathroom?”  
  
“This apartment is the size of a shoebox, Big Bad. Carry yourself. Oh, and leave your clothes in the hamper. I have to do laundry, anyway. You can wear some of my old stuff in the meantime.”  
  
“Like a bloody mother-hen, you are.” Spike sounds grouchy and pleased. Xander smiles as he rummages through his cabinets for the instant coffee  _he_  never used.  
  
“Hey! Don’t leave your wet towels on the floor!” Xander calls, just as the door to the bathroom closes. Whether or not Spike heard is up for debate. Either way, there  _will_  be wet towels on the floor.  
  
Yep, Spike is back.  
  


*

  
  
Spike cuddles closer to the warm body he’s been sleeping against. Doesn’t have to open his eyes to know there’s dawnlight streaming in. He’s not at all a morning person.  
  
“Spike,” a sleep-fuzzed voice mumbles, followed by a light snore. Of course. It’s too early to do anything but go back to sleep.  
  
But there’s such lovely warmth to wake up to. Xander feels positively amazing, all heat and muscles and some wonderful scent, like candy. Like  _chocolate_. . . .  
  
Spike’s morning wood is pressing insistently against a firm arse. He grinds into Xander, hoping he’ll take the hint and wake up ready to be fucked stupid.  
  
“Come on, luv. Want you  _now_ ,” he whispers, burying his face in dark, shaggy, silky hair that smells of some herbal shampoo. Slides his hand down a muscled thigh, then back up. “Please, wake up. I want this so much, pet. I  _need_  this.”  
  
Xander moans, rolling toward Spike a little. Blessed encouragement.   
  
“That’s right, luv. Know you’ve been wanting this as much as I have.” Spike’s voice is shaking more than his hand as he reaches for and hopes he’ll find - a hard on that matches his own. A few quick strokes and Xander’s fucking his hand sleepily, murmuring something that sounds like “Wil”.  
  
“You feel so good, luv. That’s it, just like that. . .” No rhyme or reason to the nonsense either of them are moaning and groaning, no rhythm to the grinding and thrusting. Just urgency and heat.  
  
“More, Spike, please.”  
  
“Tell me what you want, little brother.” Biting the nape of Xander’s neck, his ear, his shoulder. Tastes as sweet as he smells, his boy does.  
  
“Want you to fuck me. Fuck me, Wil.”  
  
And Spike’s losing control at the breathy sound of his own name, coming so hard and for so long it hurts. His vision goes black, then he’s sitting up into bright afternoon sunlight, gasping.  
  
Around him Xander’s secondhand livingroom seems to crouch in shame at such direct lighting. The apartment has that empty feel Spike associates with being the only living being in a place.   
  
He’s quite alone and the crotch of the sweatpants Xander’d loaned him are soaked.  
  
“Bugger.” Spike flops back down onto the couch.  
  
The dreams are definitely getting worse.  
  



	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See chapter one for summary and notes/warnings.

Xander’s key is barely out of his pocket when the door is yanked open and he’s snatched inside.  
  
“What took you so long?” Kisses too deep and intense to talk around, though Xander tries. Finally has to push him away just to speak.  
  
“I - something came up -” Impossible to think when those brown eyes seem to burn at him, devour him; when strong arms pull him close, closer, closest and he feels warm and  _safe_.  
  
“Something came up over here, too. And you’re lucky I didn’t start without you, Xander.” And there goes the nuzzles and nipping bites. Something about having his neck touched drives Xander up the wall, murders his brains cells with lust that burns brighter than a roman candle.  
  
“But -” What? Xander’s damned if he can remember.  
  
“Tell me later. For now, I just wanna fuck you.”  
  
 _This is what always happens_ , Xander reflects as he’s dragged relentlessly to the livingroom.  _On-again/off-again. Sure. Every time I try to_ make _it off-again, I find myself bent over the back of his sofa or some random, waist high piece of furniture and fucked six ways to Sunday._    
  
Yep, Xander’s being bent over the sofa. There go the sweatpants and boxers. And the shoes. And one of his socks.  
  
“What I like about you is that your rough, unromantic shell covers an equally rough and unromantic core.” Xander muses just before he’s spread like Thanksgiving dinner and a large - thankfully lubed - finger is sliding up where the sliding’s good.  
  
“Jesus.” Previous train of thought? Lost. So very lost. . . Lost of the Mohicans. . . .  
  
“Love the way you clench around me. Can’t get enough, can ya?” Arrogance. Shouldn’t be a turn on, but it is. It so. Is.   
  
Two fingers and  _ouch, sir, may I have some more?_  
  
“We can’t keep doing this.” Xander can ignore the fingers tickling him in places the sun will never see. He can ignore the hand stroking him off like stroking-him-off is going out of style. He can even ignore the tingly burn building up in his lower back that means either imminent orgasm or imminent hernia.  
  
“Your mouth says no, but other parts of you -”  
  
What he can’t ignore is all the wicked-dirty things being whispered in his ear, in that wicked-dirty New Yawk accent.  
  
“I hate you, sometimes.”  
  
A soft chuckle. “If you just shut up for a few minutes and promise to be a very bad boy -” near painful bites on his spine, accompanied by something large and hard pressing against his hip for a too brief moment. ”I’ll change your mind.”  
  
The dirty-talk reminds him of Spike. Not that Spike has anything resembling a wicked-dirty New Yawk accent. Not that  _Xander’s_ ever heard Spike make with the dirty-talk, but he’s imagined -  
  
“You just got a lot harder. . . what are you thinking about?” Warm breath on his back, moving up to his neck and ear. “Thinking about how good you’re gonna feel with nine inches of Irish cock in you?” A quick sharp thrust-twist of those fingers and hello, Mr. Prostate!  
  
 _Whoa, I can see time._  
  
Xander thinks he must’ve said this aloud because the dirty nothings have turned into chuckles and wow! He really  _can_  see time!  
  
“Ready for me, Xander?” And yep, that’s a full nine inches of Irish cock poised to skewer Xander, but currently brushing against him gently, carefully. As if gentleness or care has ever had any part in their - relationship.  
  
“You’re - you’re very fond of rhetorical questions, aren’t you?  _Fuck_!” One fast, deep push in at, like, Warp Nine or even Warp Nine Point Nine, and Xander’s just panting and pushing back to meet those hard, unsparing thrusts, one leg twined around his lover’s. There’s no thought, no kiss-off speeches, just fucking and being fucked. Strong, huge hands on his hips, holding him up - holding him in place. Hot, harsh breaths in his ear cursing and cursing him, telling him he’s going to be split like a cord of wood.  
  
It’s always like this. Always  _good_  like this. Always. Scarily intense, desperately impersonal. Always like this. Nothing ever changes. Coming is like pleasure, pain and relief all rolled into one. It leaves him limp and gasping, unable to resist being carried to bed to be fucked some more.  
  
“Jeez, what are you, the marathon man? Why can’t you come when I do?” Xander gets dropped unceremoniously on the bed, like a sack of potatoes, and brooded over critically. It’s that look that makes Xander feel ashamed, more than the fact that he suspects he’s nothing more than a convenient, if yappy, warm hole to be fucked until he’s too tired to respond.  
  
“Some guys actually like to take their time. Been waiting awhile for this. Not gonna rush it.” That lovely speech, delivered with that infuriating, possessive, arrogant look is enough to make Xander seethe.  
  
“Don’t fucking look at me like that. I swear to God, I’ll walk if you don’t cut it out.”   
  
“No, you won’t.”  
  
“You’re so sure you’ve rocked my world? So sure I’m not gonna walk out of here for good, this time?” Resentment? Lust? Attitude? Xander honestly can’t tell which of those things is coloring his voice, suspects it’s all three.  
  
“Pretty sure.”   
  
Xander’s ready to throw on his sweatpants - God, he’s still wearing his jacket and sweater - and leave, while he still feels shamed enough to do so. Leave before the naughty touches start again.   
  
“I hope you enjoyed that, 'cause I can promise you it’ll never happen again. I’m gone - “ And damn, for a big, hulking bastard he moves  _fast_. He’s on the bed and on Xander like the world’s horniest duvet, turning Xander over and fucking him again before he can make a no doubt witty rejoinder.  
  
 _Signs you’re in a troubled relationship? Your lover never seems as detached as when he’s just fucked you so hard, you’ll be walking funny the rest of the day.  
  
Signs you’re in a flat-out  _bad_  relationship? Not even _you _take your ‘no’s seriously, anymore._  
  
But instead of a moment of rage that feels like it’ll burn him alive before the reawakened lust kicks in, all Xander feels is calm. In his mind’s eye he can see Spike, the way he’d looked when they’d first reunited three years ago. The leering smile that should’ve set Xander’s teeth on edge, but didn’t. The way Spike had given him the once-over and a friendly: “you’ll do” then thrown an arm around his shoulder.  
  
Taken him in with no questions asked, opening his home and his life to Xander, despite having just moved in with his boyfriend.  
  
Xander’s always been pretty sure the closest he’ll ever come to true love is what he’d felt for Spike after that first hug. What he feels to this  _day_.   
  
Oh, and Xander’s totally not ready to explore the reason Mr. Happy just sat up, like a dog hoping for a treat, at thoughts of Spike’s smile and Spike’s arm around him and  _Spike_ , saying wicked-dirty things in a wicked-dirty London accent.   
  
 _A spot of repression would be smashing, just about now. Or a distraction - oh, yeah! Big, hot hand on my cock, big hard cock in my ass._ There’s _a distraction. No way that gropey paw could belong to Spike. Spike’s hands are smaller, precise. And he’s probably more creative than grunt-thrust-repeat-for-two-hours-straight-nonstop.  
  
And how pervy is it to think about my brother when I’m about to come? Pretty pervy, yet witness me not stopping - _  
  
And there Xander goes, again, a scream ripped out of him along with orgasm the second. In the eternity it takes to recover his wits, he slowly realizes tall, dark and licentious still hasn’t come. Is still fucking him slowly, steadily.  
  
Is obviously in no hurry.   
  
 _Great._ He’s _just getting warmed up and I’m already getting bored, not to mention sore. Yeah, walking funny for at least the rest of the day. And that’s the_ least _I deserve for what I’ve done and who I think about when I do it.  
  
I can’t keep doing this. It’s wrong and sneaky and kinda icky. And this whole on-again/off-again back and forth is far from healthy. It’s like this every time. The same sequence of fucking, limited conversation and my increasingly pervy imagination.  
  
With Spike back in town, I _have _to find a way to end this relationship. For keeps, this time._  
  
But for now, Xander can only pillow his head on his forearms, close his eyes and let himself be fucked.  
  
And try not to pretend it’s Spike doing the fucking.  
  


*

  
  
Riding the subways of New York City is both new and familiar for Spike. Looks like the city blew serious cash on some new trains. Spike, trying to breathe as little as possible with that skanky guy’s armpit in his face, is not terribly impressed.  
  
He feels rather conspicuous in Xander’s loaner gear, the jeans practically hanging off his ass, the hideously patterned sweater bagging on him like the world’s ugliest, hairiest parachute. But after the dream, he also feels a perverse need to be close to Xander, who’d disappeared without leaving a note or calling. If that means wearing these - hideous, yet serviceable clothes, so be it.  
  
Xander’ll pay him back later. In liquor. Right now, it’s more important that Spike take care of something he’d let slip for over a year.  
  
At Union Square, Spike transfers from the subway gratefully, catches the M14 bus, gets off at 3rd St, and cuts into Alphabet City. His feet take him where he’s going, stepping over random piles or children, moving too fast to get talked into buying crappy silver jewelry from the myriad street vendors.   
  
Spike doesn’t really notice his surroundings at all till he’s ringing the buzzer that used to have his name on it, looking expectantly at the small two-way mounted to the wall.  
  
“Who’s there.” Tinny, but familiar voice coming out of the speaker. It tugs on his heartstrings, but only a little.  
  
“‘S me, poofter. Can I come up?” Deja vu, all over again.  
  
The speaker shuts off. A minute later, the door buzzes and Spike goes inside.  
  
Angel’s waiting for him at the landing of the three-storey walk-up, shirtless and rumpled looking. Spike wonders if he’s interrupted something. Feels a bit pleased that he might have.  
  
“You’re back,” Angel says without welcome or anything else in his voice that Spike can interpret. That handsome, cro-magnon face is totally expressionless.  
  
“Like a bad rash, luv. But enough of the pleasantries. Asked you to look after the boy, didn’t I? Come to find he’s living in a roach motel in the Bronx while you’re still living here? Care to explain how the fuck that happened?” Spike can do the unreadable voice, too.   
  
“He’s a big boy, Spike. He doesn’t need me to look after him. Doesn’t  _want_  me to look after him When he turned eighteen, he moved out.”  
  
Spike shakes his head, confused. Realizes he’s still standing in the stairwell, barely halfway up the stairs.  
  
“Know you two weren’t the best of mates, but Xan wouldn’t just leave this place to go live in that ninth-circle-of-hell apartment he’s in now. What did you do?”  
  
Angel merely looks at him, still the playing the expressionless man.  
  
“Are you gonna fucking answer me or stare holes into me?”  
  
“When did you get back?”  
  
“God, you haven’t changed! Just after midnight, not that it’s any of yours, mate. Answer the question. Did you kick my brother out, or do anything to make him uncomfortable enough to leave?”  
  
Angel finally sighs, running a hand through his gelled -  _When did he start doing that?_  Spike wonders - hair, leaving it in cowlicks and clumps. “Maybe you should ask your brother why he left.”  
  
“Did, mate. He’s not the type to rat anyone out. Hoped I’d get a more forthright answer from you.” Spike climbs the remaining steps until one more would place him in Angel’s arms. “Never known you to lie to me, luv.”  
  
Angel’s eyes close for a moment. This close, Spike can smell it. Angel had been having sex, hadn’t even showered whoever it was off him. There was a time when that would have made Spike hard. . . and obviously that time hasn’t passed because he’s swaying forward, wanting to smell that intoxicating scent, touch whoever it is smells so fucking  _good_. Maybe a threesome with the ex and his next would be enough to burn the Xander-lust out of his brain and heart.  
  
“Angel.” Spike has no idea what he’s going to say. Is thankful when Angel backs away, hand held up as if to ward Spike off.  
  
“You need to talk about that with Xander.” Spike can’t be totally sure he sees it but a disturbed expression momentarily crosses Angel’s face. “I mean - talk with him about his living situation. Whatever he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Look, I’m gonna - go. I have company.”  
  
“So I smelled.” Spike’s leering good-naturedly, whatever lust spell he’d been under is broken, now that he can’t smell the scent of whoever Angel had been fucking lingering in the air around him. “Does  _company_  have a name I’d recognize?”  
  
But Angel’s already closing the door to his apartment. Spike lingers a moment, waits to hear voices or fucking or  _something_. But there’s nothing. At least nothing loud enough for Spike to hear.  
  
“Well, that went better than I expected,” Spike sighs, as he shuffles down the stairs. By the time he reaches the first floor landing, he’s taking them two at a time.  
  


*

  
  
Angel stands in the doorway of his bedroom, watching Xander, whose shaggy, dark head is still propped up on his arms, sleeping the deep sleep of the thoroughly fucked.  
  
No matter how long he watches, Angel can’t make himself get into bed with him.   
  
After a few minutes, he goes to the kitchen to start dinner.


	3. 3

“And where’ve you been, young man? I’ve been worried sick!”  
  
Xander nearly jumps out of his skin. Then steps into the doorway of his bedroom, turning on the lights -  
  
There’s Spike, stretching sleepily on the bed, all wide, blinky-blue eyes and disturbingly sexy bed-head. Wearing Xander's ratty, old bathrobe and apparently nothing else.  
  
“I, uh, was - uh - helping someone. A friend. I was helping a friend move. Upstate. To Schenectady.” Yeah, Xander’s had an hour of travel time to think up decent lies about his seven-hour absence. Perhaps he should have actually spent the hour doing just that instead of meditating on all the places Angel had made him ache.  
  
Spike’s smiling at him fondly, one sandy-colored eyebrow quirked up. “You have got to be the world’s  _worst_  liar, Xan. Anyway, are we gonna do something tonight or stay here and veg? M’self? I could go for some fun. After the week I’ve had I feel the need to shake what the good Lord gave me.” Spike wriggles around on the bed in a way that gives Xander an excellent view of the underwear Spike’s  _not_  wearing.  
  
Or would give an excellent view if Xander weren’t staring determinedly at Spike’s feet and not one inch higher.  
  
“Uh - going out is good. I h-haven’t been out on a Saturday in awhile. Where, uh, do you wanna go?”  
  
“Where else?  _The Cock_.” Spike is sitting up, looking rumpled and too fuckable. Xander swallows, tries to focus on his current aches and how they’re the result of naughty thoughts.   
  
 _Naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places naughty thoughts only cause pain in naughty places -_  
  
Okay. Xander’s officially turned on by pain in naughty places caused by naughty!Spike.  
  
“Uh, Spike -”  
  
“Come on, pet, don’t gimme any bollocks about  _oh, no, not_ The Cock _, Spike, it’s a gay club_.” Spike’s American accent is  _dreadful_ and he looks suspiciously close to scoffing.  
  
“But Spike, it  _is_  a gay club,” Xander says innocently, trying not to grin and failing. He ducks the pillow thrown at his head with a chuckle. “Okay, calm down. I’ve actually been to  _The Cock_  before and I wouldn’t mind going again.”  
  
The look on that perfect face is priceless. Couldn’t buy it with ten Mastercards. And the leer it slowly melts into? More than enough to liquefy Xander’s bones into twin puddles of goo.  
  
“Well, well, little brother cruising for cock at  _The Cock_? What alternate universe have  _I_  returned home to? Come sit and tell Spikey everything!” Spike pats the bed expectantly.  
  
“I wasn’t - ‘cruising for cock’, Spike.” Xander rolls his eyes but goes to sit on the bed. “I was - I dunno. Curious, I guess. You and Angel used to fight so much about that place -”  
  
“You  _heard_  that?” Spike is blushing. Only a little, but it’s the first time Xander has managed to color those pale cheeks.  
  
“Uh, yeah.  _Boston_  heard that. All those super-loud fights about  _your_  skinny, drunk ass getting into trouble that  _he_  had to bail you out of - I just had to see what all the fuss was about.” Xander grins, remembers the apoplectic red Angel would turn after he’d finally managed to drag Spike home from one of those halcyon nights of mayhem. Remembers peeking out at the two of them, hoping he hadn’t cracked his door open so wide he’d be seen. Spike was usually fall-down drunk and singing “Anarchy in the UK” or “EMI” at that point. And climbing Angel like a tree - or trying to - while Angel ranted and half-heartedly pushed him away. By the time things got X-rated, Xander had usually shut his door.  
  
Usually.  
  
“Curious, eh?” Spike’s voice has a laugh in it and Xander wonders how much Spike’s guessed about what he’d just been remembering.  
  
“A little, yeah,” Xander admits, blushing much deeper than Spike had moments ago.  
  
“I'll bet you were.” Spike is moving behind Xander, putting strong hands on his shoulders. “That’s a lot of tension you’ve got stored up, luv,” Spike notes disapprovingly as Xander groans, his muscles loosening so quickly it’s almost painful.  
  
“What’s got you so worked up, Xan? Schenectady?” Spike's voice sounds like a warm, wry smile.  
  
“Whuh?” Thinking bad. Massage good.  
  
“Never mind, pet. Just sit back and enjoy. Regale me with tales of your adventures at  _The Cock_.”  
  
“Uhhhh. . . no adventures, just - me, unsuccessfully mackin’ on cute guys, buckets of flop-sweat and hoping my fake i.d. held out long enough for me to buy some liquid courage.”  
  
“Sounds interesting.” Spike’s voice is right next to Xander’s ear, a soothing purr that curls around Xander’s spine.  
  
“Totally not. Interesting, I mean. The only time I didn’t make a complete idiot of myself was this one night when they held the Bar-Top-Strip-Tease contest and I - nuh-uh, wild horses couldn’t drag the rest of that story out of me. Even if I live to be a million.”  
  
“You did a  _strip-tease_  on the bar-top of  _The Cock_?” Those strong hands slow, become almost sensual. Xander shivers, leaning back and oh, wow, Spike’s chest against his back. Sending naughty-signals to Xander’s stupidly amoral naughty-zone.  
  
“Uh - wild horses, Spike. Wild horses.”  
  
“I don’t believe this - my little brother, following in my footsteps - God, I’m so fucking proud of you - hey, what was your song? Mine was ‘Big Balls’.”  
  
“You did a strip-tease at  _The Cock_ , too?" Despite the surprise that is not, Xander bursts out laughing. "Wait - to  _AC/DC?_  That’s so fucking  _lame_! Ouch!” Xander glares back at Spike, rubbing his head. Spike looks as stern as Xander’s ever seen him.  
  
“Is not! Stupid teeny-bopper - don’t know good music, do ya? You probably listen to that blonde girl - you know, the one with the shit voice and the big fake tits. And that Timberwolf ponce, as well. What do  _you_  know about good music?”  
  
“Plenty! The Cars, Culture Club, Rick Astley - but that’s just  _strippin’_  music! For listening, I prefer the vocal stylings of the first lady of country and western, Patsy Cline,” Xander says. Spike makes a rude noise, turns his brother’s head forward again and starts kneading his shoulder muscles.  
  
“There’s no excuse for your musical taste, boy. I raised you better than that. Or thought I did. I blame Angel and his unholy love of the Rat Pack and that Perry Como git. Corrupted you, he has. Barmy poofter.”  
  
Xander can’t even reply to that. Feels it’s safer to let that comment slide on by.  
  
“Alright, out with it, poofter-junior. What did you shake your moneymaker to?”  
  
Xander turns red and mumbles something; he  _hopes_  Spike will be content not to push. But he knows better, knows  _Spike_.  
  
“Didn’t quite catch that, luv. Would you mind repeating it in English?”  
  
“I stripped to The Divinyls’ ‘I Touch Myself’.” Xander sighs  
  
“You really are the  _gayest_  bloke I’ve ever met,” Spike says thoughtfully. Xander elbows him in the side, earning another slap on the head.  
  
“Stop slapping me!”  
  
“I will, as soon as you stop acting like a git!”  
  
“Don’t hold your breath!” Xander retorts, then frowns. “I mean -”  
  
“I can’t believe you’d dance to that - no, I can. I can see you in my head, gettin’ all jiggy with it. It’s cute, really.”  
  
“Okay, who even says  _jiggy with it_  anymore, Captain Behind-the-Times?”  
  
“Maybe more than cute. Maybe hot.  _You_  probably are the only one who could make that song sexy. Of course. You are  _my_ brother.” Spike actually sounds proud.  
  
“Coming from the guy who stripped to ‘Big Balls’ - I dunno if that’s a  _compliment_. . . but thanks.”  
  
“I’m telling you, that song is a classic! And it’s astonishingly apropos, in my case. . . .”  
  
“Sure it is, Big Willy - ow! Quit slapping me, already!”  
  
“Bet you looked gorgeous up there. Probably not a dry crotch in the house.” Spike’s hands have slowed and gentled so much that they’re more caressing than massaging.  
  
“Me? Nah, I’m not ‘gorgeous’ material. That’s more your forte, Spike.”   
  
“Have you looked in a mirror, lately, pet?” Spike’s voice is in his ear again, curling around his spine, his cock, his anything-hard-enough-to-sit-up-and-take-notice. “Bet you won the contest, didn’t you?”   
  
At Xander’s nod, Spike chuckles. “I swear, if you weren’t m’ brother, I’d -”  
  
Xander snaps out of his pleasant reverie when Spike falls silent and beings massaging Xander’s shoulders so briskly, the muscles tense back up again.  
  
“If I weren’t your brother you’d -?” Xander has a desperate need to hear the end of this sentence. Spike almost certainly wasn’t going to say what Xander  _wishes_  he’d say, but Xander can’t help wanting to know what he would’ve said, anyway.  
  
“Well, if you weren’t my brother I’d be trying to set you up with my friends, yeah? Alright, Mr. Stripper, lemme get showered up and you go do some laundry, then we’ll see if we can’t find something salvageable in that disaster of a wardrobe of yours.” Spike is letting go of Xander’s shoulders and sliding past him off the bed. He snatches his loaner duds from Xander’s chair and pads into the bathroom, shutting the door.  
  
Yes, the absence of Spike will make the hard-on-that-won’t-die - well, die. Right?   
  
Xander flops back on the bed with a gusty sigh.  
  
 _. . . if you weren’t m’ brother, I’d -_  
  
“Believe me, Spike, there are times I wish I wasn’t.”  
  


*

  
  
“Bugger, bugger, fuck!”  
  
Spike lays his head against the wet tile of Xander’s shower, letting cold water rain down on him. Not that there’s water  _cold_ enough to wash the  _perv_  off him, but Spike’s always been an optimist.  
  
Though the icy water feels like penance, after five minutes, it's done nothing to diminish the erection Spike’s had - in one form or another - since the plane landed at LaGuardia.   
  
Looks like the only way out is through. As always.  
  
Spike closes one cold, shaking hand around his cock and starts stroking slowly, pretending it’s  _not_  his own hand doing the stroking. Which is fairly easy since Spike’s hand has gone so numb he barely has any feeling in it at all. He closes his eyes and imagines Xander’s in the cramped, tiny shower with him, smiling that mischievous smile, wet, dark hair in eyes that are dark, darker, darkest with want. Of Spike.  
  
It’s Xan’s hand stroking up and down, driving Spike insane with need.  _Xan’s_  calloused thumb brushing the head of Spike’s cock every so often, dragging slowly across the hyper-sensitive tip and slit -  
  
“Oh, fuck,  _Xan_.” Spike’s about to come and it’s  _wrong_. The only way to get past these desires is to not indulge himself. To just - focus on someone -  _anyone_  else.  
  
But Xan had been  _so close_ , leaning back into Spike like he’d never belong anywhere else, smelling of soap and sweetness and _Xander_  -  
  
\- something about that scent tugs at Spike’s memory, but he dismisses it in favor of remembering the warm, solid feel of Xander’s lean muscles under his hands and picking up the pace of his stroking under cold water he no longer notices. . . .  
  
It’d been all Spike could do not to scooch forward till his legs bracketed Xander’s and his cock was nestled against that amazing arse. He would have been happy just to rock against Xander’s arse and bring himself off that way, if nothing else. And it’d feel bloody  _heavenly_  because it was Xander in Spike’s arms, Xander saying  _’Spike’_  like a prayer.   
  
 _Xander_  fucking Spike’s hand just like in the dreams, all lovely and wanton and -  
  
\- and all  _Spike’s_.  
  
On that thought, Spike’s gasping, shooting into his hand. He collapses to the shower floor with a jarring  _thud_  when his knees buckle. Lays there, helplessly coming all over himself.  
  
By the time the last load is shot and the last post-O aftershock has gone the way of the dodo, Spike is curled up, shivering on the floor of the shower under the still-freezing spray, but feeling utterly undeserving of any kind of warmth.


	4. 4

“I look like a fool. . .”  
  
“You look edible.”  
  
“This outfit is so  _gay_. . .”  
  
“Well,  _yeah_.”  
  
“Please explain to me why I’m letting you tart me up in mascara and eyeliner like some chick?”  
  
“Don’t be so macho, luv. Make-up’s for whomever looks good in it and  _you_  look good in it.”  
  
“Really? I think you must have me confused with you, oh, androgynous one.”  
  
“Trust me, I’ll have to beat the blokes off of you with a stick.”  
  
“There’ll be no beating of would-be suitors with a stick. Or any other blunt object. Or with fists. Or chairs. Or chains. And no stabbing -”  
  
“Alright, alright, I get it.”   
  
“And no kicking, either.”  
  
“Bugger. . . stop moving or you’ll mess up all my careful work!”  
  
“Oh, sure,  _careful_  my ass! I look like a clown! A  _girl_  clown, damnit!”   
  
“You look fuckable.”  
  
“You  _have_  to say that, Spike. You’re my brother.”  
  
“Telling the little brother how fuckable he is? Exactly which section of the Big Brother Handbook is that in, again?”  
  
“You know what I mean. You’re just being nice. Or not-nice, depending on whether or not I’m actually looking in the mirror. . . .”   
  
“I’m telling you, you look good. You’d look even better if you were a little more confident.”  
  
“This wasn’t exactly the in-look last time I was at  _The Cock_ , you know. . . .”  
  
“Trust me, you’ll fit right in looking like this.”  
  
“That fills me with confidence.”  
  
“I knew it would. Don’t blink unless you want soot all over your lids.”  
  
“I’m sure I’ll be the prettiest working-girl at the bar. . . .”  
  
“That’s enough of you, smart-arse. . . there, I’m done. Damn, but we’re hot.”  
  
“Speak for yourself, Lestat.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Never mind. Pop-culture reference. How much is the cover?  
  
“On a Saturday night? Don’t ask, it’ll only depress you.”  
  
“Yikes.”  
  
“No worries, it’s my treat.”  
  
“My five favorite words.”  
  


*

  
  
“Here.”  
  
“Uh. . . .I already have a fake i.d., Spike.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s a  _shit_  fake i.d., pet. I dunno how you got into  _any_  bar with that piece of crap, but this one’s much better.”  
  
“Well, let’s see. . . ‘Thomas A. Anderson’? I suppose we’ll have to hope the bartender’s never seen  _The Matrix_.”  
  
“Not everyone’s a big geek like you.”  
  
“You were the one who took me to see  _Reloaded_!”  
  
“A selfless act of charity on my part. Believe me, I regretted it five minutes in - oi! You may as well take Lexington all the way south for the rest of the drive. Probably be faster than Park.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Now you’re telling the cab driver how to drive? Spike, you’re amazing.”  
  
“I’m take-charge, and you love it. Oi -!”  
  
“Ow! That hurt!”  
  
“Good, maybe you’ll stop trying to rub the mascara off when you think I’m not looking.”  
  
“You’re a Nazi, sometimes.”  
  
“Only sometimes? I must be slipping in my old age. Look, you need to relax, luv. You look smashing. All eyes are gonna be on you.”  
  
“You suck at the comforting. I remain uncomforted.”  
  
“Okay - then think of it like this - you ever been somewhere and a really hot girl walks into the room and everyone notices her at the exact same time, no one can take their eyes off her. She’s just - the center of attention, she’s so fucking beautiful?”  
  
“Yeah, I guess. . . .”  
  
“Well,  _you’re_  that girl, luv. Believe me when I say - you have no reason to be shy or introverted. You look like sex incarnate.”  
  
“Oh. . . wow.”  
  
“‘Wow’s right. So what’s our game plan?”  
  
“Game plan?”  
  
“Yeah, are we working as a team or do we divide and conquer - what’s your pleasure?”  
  
“Again, I say ‘whuh’?”  
  
“Do you wanna set your sights on a couple of blokes like us, just out cruising together and we can work on ‘em as a team or do we go in, split up and hope to not see each other till sometime tomorrow afternoon?”  
  
“Oh. Um. Which sounds better to you?”  
  
“Team effort. That way I can keep an eye on the wankers that try to talk to you.”  
  
“Ugh, if you’re gonna be my nursemaid, I think I’ll just cruise alone. Not that I’ll be cruising, as such.”  
  
“If you don’t wanna get laid, what’s the point of even going out, then?”  
  
“I’m in the greatest city in the world, on a Saturday night, with my big brother, who I haven’t hung out with in over a year - there needs to be a point beyond that. . .? What’s that look for?”  
  
“For being such a bleedin’  _girl_ , tosser.”  
  
“How about I make this night about cock-blocking Spike? Is that goal-oriented enough for you?”  
  
“Try it and I’ll wring your neck, whelp. And don’t drink too much. If you’re anything like mum was, you can’t hold your liquor.”  
  
“I don’t drink.”  
  
“Good. Filthy habit, that. It'll kill ya - ah, fuck, mate!  _Speakee English_? I said Lexington!  _Lexington_! Look, you’ve got us mired in traffic, now!”  
  
“Spike, leave the driver alone - sir, I’m sorry, my brother is a crazy person. Please ignore him.”  
  
“He’s already done enough of  _that_ , ta very much. Swing over onto Lex at the next opportunity, what’s left of your tip is riding on this -”  
  
“Oh, God, this is so fucking  _embarrassing_  -”  
  
“What the bloody hell are you yammering about? ‘Embarrassing’?”  
  
“Gee, Spike, I dunno.”  
  
“And where’s this pissy little ‘tude of yours coming from, all of a sudden? You’ve been acting weird all ni -  _sonuvabitch_!”  
  
“Well, this is just perfect. There’s construction work being done on Lexington Avenue, Spike.”  
  
“I can see that, ‘m not blind!”  
  
“You want I should take Third Avenue, sir?”  
  
“Sure, whatever, you’re the one doing the driving, mate.”  
  
“Spike!”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Nothing, just - nothing.”  
  


*

  
  
“Okay, we’re the only ones in here dressed like this.”  
  
“Yeah, pet, looks like. . . .”  
  
“You said we’d fit right in!”  
  
“I’ve been away for a year, and I hadn’t been to this place for at least six months before that! The bar’s obviously changed hands -”  
  
“Gee, ya think?”  
  
“No need to be sarcastic, pet. It’s just a minor oversight. And anyway, you can’t deny we stand out.”  
  
“Yeah. Like a shit stain on a white carpet.”  
  
“Don’t be crass.”  
  
“Well, excuse me! These jeans are so damn tight I can barely breathe, let alone pretend I have  _tact_! I think we shrunk ‘em too much.”  
  
“Trust me, we didn’t. There’re ten different guys all trying to read your religion as we speak.”  
  
“Read my - eeww! And you think  _I’m_  crass?”  
  
“Sometimes, yeah. What about that one?”  
  
“The skanky-looking one? Ugh, for me, or for you?”  
  
“For me.”  
  
“Oh. He’s alright, then. Hey, are you sure I shouldn’t run to the bathroom and wipe off this make-up. I really feel stupid.”  
  
“You come out of that bathroom make-up free and I’ll take you over my knee right here.”  
  
“Uh. . . I’ll just be heading to the bathroom, then. . . .”  
  
“Quit playing. Oi, look at  _that_  ponce! The one with the fake-looking -”  
  
“Gah! I see him. . . that can’t be  _real_!”  
  
“And yet - who would pay for such a thing?”  
  
“He’s gotta know he’s not fooling anybody.”  
  
“There are none so blind, luv - hey, what about those two at the bar? Mutt and Jeff?”  
  
“You mean the muscle-y guy and the little blond? I dunno. Which one are you, uh, into?”  
  
“Don’t usually like ‘em bulky. Angel was bad enough - but I like this boy’s looks. Bet that one has a fun kink or two worth exploring. And blondie should be just about your speed, I suppose.”  
  
“Okay, then, let's - hey!”  
  
“Calm down, luv! I just meant he looks wholesome and, you know - non-kinky.”  
  
“Yeah, well, what if I like kinky?”  
  
“Remember that time you found the box Angel and I kept under the bed? The one with all the stainless steel toys -”  
  
“Okay, you take the kinky body-builder and I’ll take the nerdy blond. Sounds like a plan.”  
  
“I thought it might.”  
  


*

  
  
“Hello, pet, I’m Spike. And you are -?”  
  
“Andrew. Wells. Andrew Wells.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Andy. This is my brother, Xander.”  
  
“Hey, Andrew.”  
  
“Hey. Nice jeans.”  
  
“Uh. . . thanks.”  
  
“This is my buddy, Adam Walsh. He and I both go to Columbia.”  
  
“Really, now? I like college boys. Graduate school, yeah?”  
  
“Yes. I’m double majoring in physics and computer science.”  
  
“Looks and brains? That’s a deadly combination, luv.”  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
“Myself, I’ve been playing hooky from university since before I came to the States.”  
  
“That’s such a shame, for there are many fine universities in Australia to choose from for your higher learning needs.”  
  
“‘M not Australian, mate, I’m English.”  
  
“Oh. . . sorry.”  
  
“That’s okay, Andrew. Sometimes his accent confuses me and I’m his brother.”  
  
“I’m sure there’s a fascinating story behind your accents, just waiting to be told. We were about to go find a table. Would you and Spike care to join us for drinks?”  
  
“Sure, Adam. . . I guess -”  
  
“What he means is, we’d love to. Wouldn’t we, Xan?”  
  
“We’d love it to pieces.”  
  
“An excellent idea. May I suggest a smooth and refreshing Zima to wet your whistles?”  
  
“Good God, no! A Guinness for me. Xan - hang back with Andy and start a tab, will you? Adam and I’ll just hold a table and you two can join us when the drinks are ready. There’s a good lad. . . .”


	5. 5

“So. . . where are you and Spike from originally?”  
  
Xander smiles at Andrew limply. If conversation is a fine art, neither of them are Picasso.   
  
“Uh, he grew up in London. I grew up in SoCal.”  
  
“Really? So did I! I’m from the small and picturesque town of Sunnydale.”  
  
“Sunnydale? Really?” At Andrew’s nod, Xander’s smile turns wistful. “My mother was from Sunnydale. We moved to Oxnard when I was eight, though. Apparently Sunnydale was a little too - picturesque for my family.”  
  
“Tell me about it. This one time, my older brother, Tucker - “ Andrew suddenly stops talking. “Uh, it’s not really a happy-ending story. So let us speak of more pleasant things. Hey, are you, like, adopted or something? You don’t look or sound anything like Spike.”  
  
Yep, this weirdo was from Sunnydale, alright. “Yeah, we were raised separately, after our folks split up. He takes after dad, I take after mom.”  
  
“I see.” Andrew nods quasi-sagely, curly, longish hair bobbing around his face. He’s almost pretty enough to be a girl. “Much like in the movie  _The Parent Trap_  or the remake of the movie  _The Parent Trap_.”   
  
A very strange and geeky girl.  
  
“Yeah. . . only Spike’s not my twin. And we’re not girls. And we didn’t reunite at summer camp. Or switch identities. And our parents didn’t get back together.” Xander wants to giggle and snort. But that would be mean.  
  
The bartender plonks down their drinks. Andrew grabs his Zima and Spike’s Guinness. Xander picks up his own Coke and Adam’s Tom Collins and looks around till he spots a massive body and a platinum blond head leaning in toward it.  
  
Adam’s going to have a lapful of Spike if he’s not more careful and less sexy.   
  
And gah! Adam  _really_  looks like Angel from a distance: a big, pale, handsome,  _intimidating_  man in dark, designer clothes.  
  
“Come on, Andy. Chop, chop.” Xander motions Andrew ahead of him. Andrew squeezes past a group of laughing guys, and a couple making out, then he stops and turns to look at Xander shyly, all baby blue eyes and pink face. Probably before the thought can even crystallize in Andrew’s head, Xander predicts what the strange little guy’s next words will be.  
  
“Hey, Xander, I know we just met and everything and I hope this doesn’t weird you out, but - I think your brother is really hot.” Andrew grins goofily up at Xander then turns back toward the back of the bar, nearly slamming into a tall red-haired man. Some of Spike’s Guinness slops out of the glass.  
  
“He is, Andrew.” Xander laughs, feeling a mixture of relief, annoyance and amusement. “He so is.”  
  


*

  
  
“So. . . come here often?”  
  
Adam smiles slightly, not meeting Spike’s eyes. “This is my first time. Some - friends recommended this place and Andrew wanted to tag along.”  
  
“He’s an interesting little monkey. . . I’m not fond of that poofy-floppy-girly haircut, but his appeal is undeniable.” Spike glances over at the bar. He can just make out Xander leaning in to someone - presumably Andrew, unless Xander’s made another friend - and smiling a strained smile. Spike feels a bit guilty for saddling Xan with the pint-size nerd, but - every man for himself.  
  
“Andrew is - yes, an interesting young man. He can be excellent company when he puts his mind to it.”  
  
Spike frowns. “Are you and he, uh -” Spike makes a rather explicit gesture with his hands. Adam doesn’t even blink.  
  
“No. Andrew and I are not intimate.”  
  
“Ah.” Spike suddenly feels awkward, though why he should is beyond him. Adam didn’t seem at all put out by the question. Nor does he seem terribly interested in Spike. In fact, he’s looking off toward the bar rather intently.   
  
 _Huh. He and Andrew may not be shagging, but not from lack of interest on this lug’s part, the way he’s staring after the poncy little pillock. Just my luck, Adam likes ‘em geeky. . . ._  
  
“Forgive me for being forward, but - your brother, Xander - is he currently seeing anyone?”  
  
It’s a good thing Spike doesn’t have the Guinness at the moment or else Adam would be covered in Spike’s first ever spit-take.  
  
 _Bloody, buggering, sodding - not fair, not fair!_  
  
“Xander is, uh -” The temptation to cock-block is a strong one. Spike’s own jealousies aside, he’s not sure he likes the idea of this guy trying to get Xander in bed. Andrew really was much more suitable. He’d probably  _never_  get up the courage to  _kiss_  Xander, let alone take him to bed.  
  
 _Christ, I’m a bastard. . . the original dog-in-the-manger. If I can’t have Xan, no one can? What the hell am I doing?_  
  
“Xander isn’t seeing with anyone, Adam. Why? You interested?” That tone of friendly, even encouraging interest? Spike feels he deserves an Academy Award for that.  
  
Adam watches Xander speculatively for a few moments, then smiles. “Very.” Adam’s hazel-ish eyes tick to Spike’s. “That is, if Andrew’s sights aren’t set on him.”  
  
 _Physically? He’s a mack truck. Mentally? He’s a fucking scalpel. I’ll have to watch this one._  
  
“Gotcha, mate. Alright, I’ll run interference with your squirrely little friend, but don’t you go trying anything sketchy with my brother. Hurt him in any way and I’ll have your balls.”  
  
“Understood.” Adam’s eyes have already drifted back to Xander who was pushing Andrew toward their table, looking exasperated and amused. Andrew only has eyes for Spike.  
  
 _Run interference. . . shouldn’t be hard at all, unfortunately. I suppose Adam, here, already picked up on_  that.   
  
Spike sighs and accepts his drink from Andrew with a “ta, luv”. Andrew immediately sits down next to Spike.  
  
“I spilled some of it, but not much! It’s still kinda foamy at the top,” Andrew reassures Spike, who takes a healthy sip as fortification. Xander’s smiling his thanks and sitting in the chair Adam has pulled out.   
  
Adam is very covertly checking out Xander’s ass as he sits.  
  
 _The boy really does look like a vision, tight blue jeans and my best vintage Ramones tour-shirt. . . God, are his eyes always so beautiful and bright, or is it just the eyeliner?  
  
Maybe it’s happiness,_ Spike thinks, as Xander laughs at something Adam said.  
  
Andrew, meanwhile, is yapping away, all swishy gesturing and trendy, cookie-cutter clothes from Urban Outfitter or someplace similar. Not nearly manly enough to really interest Spike.  
  
 _The things I put myself through for love of you, pet._  
  
“Oi, Andrew. Shut up a mo’. Got something on your mouth.”  
  
Andrew touches his mouth, looking embarrassed. “What? Where? Here?” He’s swiping at the corners of his mouth as if there’s a hornet landed there. Spike rolls his eyes, unable to believe it’ll be quite  _this_  easy.  
  
“No, pillock, here -” Spike grabs a fistful of shirt, pulls the little geek forward and kisses him on the mouth.  
  


*

  
  
“Uh. . . wow.”  
  
“Indeed.” Adam is smiling a little, watching Spike swallow Andrew’s face with something very close to amusement.  
  
“My brother usually isn’t like this,” Xander lies, his stomach an uneasy knot of jealousy, anger, hurt and lust.   
  
“It’s alright.” Adam’s  _sang froi_  is both admirable and annoying under the circumstances. “Andrew doesn’t seem to mind.”  
  
And is  _that_  the understatement of the year or what? Andrew’s already sitting in Spike’s lap, holding onto him like a drowning man, returning the kiss just as hard - if not harder. And Spike’s - grabbing Andrew’s ass and pulling him closer.  
  
Xander reaches for Spike’s Guinness and takes a huge swallow because a) Xander  _really_  needs a drink and any drink’ll do, and b) payback’s a bitch. Spike can just get another drink when he pries nerd-boy off his face.  
  
“At some point, they’re gonna to need to breathe,” Xander observes eventually, amazed at how not-jealous, not-angry and not-offended he sounds.   
  
“So one assumes,” Adam agrees, standing up. “Instead of waiting for that to happen, let’s go pick out some songs on the jukebox.” Adam holds out his hand. After a moment of hesitation -  _I thought I was supposed to be baby-sitting Andrew while Spike went after Adam_  -he takes the offered hand and Adam pulls him up easily, slipping an arm around his waist. It feels. . . nice.  
  
“Come on. Maybe we can find something to dance to.”   
  
Xander grabs  _his_  Guinness and is ushered him through the crowded bar. Of course, the crowd parts like the Red Sea for Adam. In moments, Xander’s pressing against Adam’s side breathing in the scent of patchouli and aftershave and Xander’s never been this close to any guy that wasn’t Spike or Angel.  
  
The jukebox selection goes by in a daze. Xander can’t focus on or remember the four songs they chose, knows he won’t argue with any of Adam’s picks. Not while Adam’s stroking his back slowly, hypnotically, occasionally looking down into Xander’s eyes to smile or comment on the juke’s music selection. To give his mouth something to do that isn’t babble, he sips at Spike’s liberated Guinness, which is pretty shitty-tasting, and tries to look as pretty as he doesn’t feel.  
  
“It may be awhile before our songs come up. . . but if you don’t mind dancing to Shakira, I’d love to dance with you now.”  
  
“Uh, sure! I mean - yeah, sure, whatever.” The grin Xander’s wearing feels really stupid, which means it’s probably the king of stupid smiles. But that’s okay, because Adam doesn’t seem put off by Xander displaying at least half his dental work.  
  
Adam takes Xander’s empty glass and hands it to some random guy walking by.  
  
“Hey - I’m not a waiter -”  
  
“I know, I just really want to dance with my friend, here. I’d very much appreciate it if you put that on the bar as you go by.” Even as he finishes speaking, Adam is pulling Xander into his arms. The random guy looks like he’s about to make an issue of it, notes the size of Adam’s forearms, then scurries away with the glass.  
  
 _Cool_ , Xander thinks, still grinning.  
  
In the first few steps, it’s obvious that Adam is not a dancer.   
  
This is surprisingly not a problem for Xander, who, as luck would have it, is quite the dancer. It’s no hardship to hold Adam close and guide him through a basic shimmy-shake-bump-grind.  
  
By the time the song ends, they’re both breathless and laughing. Adam is no less awkward and Xander’s toes have been stepped on at least five times.  
  
The next song is slower, thank God for small favors. The kind of song that allows your less-than-coordinated partner to pull you into his big, strong he-man arms, against his big, strong he-man chest and woodenly lead you in a precise box-step around the limited space.   
  
 _This must be what prom is like. . . ._  
  
“So, do you work? Go to school? Both?” Adam’s doing the back-stroking thing again. Xander immediately relaxes.  
  
“Work. I’m a construction worker. I do some carpentry work on the side. Like Spike, I’m not college material, either. The only classes I ever got straight As in were woodshop, metalshop and home-ec. I’m not exactly varsity-bound with my Cs and Ds.“ Xander shrugs, trying not to blush. The slow burn of his face under the make-up tells him he’s failed miserably. Nothing new, there.  
  
“But you could build your own house, then cook your own meals when you’d finished building. I’d say that’s something to be proud of. Andrew is one of the smartest people I know. But he once set himself on fire trying to toast a pop tart.”   
  
“You’re kidding me?”  
  
“I’m not. Some of the other TAs were able to extinguish him but - it was a close call.” Adam chuckles. “I think common sense is a valuable thing to have.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know. I’m the king of dopey decisions. Note my choice of wardrobe tonight. And half of a Duane Reade make-up aisle is on my face. Common sense and I rarely meet, if ever.” Xander demures. Adam tilts his head slightly, giving Xander a lingering once-over.  
  
“You stand out. Everyone in here is so. . . uniform. You’re like a parakeet in a cage full of sparrows.”  
  
“Oh.” Red as a beet? Not the most attractive look on anyone, but Xander has to live with it because a blush like this one is going to take weeks to fade.  
  
“Have I embarrassed you?”  
  
“No! I just - Spike said I looked okay, but I just thought he was being supportive because he usually is. . . so supportive,” Xander finishes lamely because Spike’s not  _unsupportive_ , but he’ll never be the wind beneath anyone’s wings.  
  
“You look more than okay, Xander,” Adam says softly, leaning closer. Xander holds his breath for a moment, waiting for Adam to kiss him. But Adam is watching him, smiling a little, as if to say: “Well?”  
  
“Okay. Here goes nothing -” Xander mutters, pulling Adam’s face down into a big, nervous, sloppy kiss.


	6. 6

  
“Pet? Pet -  _Andrew_!”  
  
“What?” Andrew’s voice is pouty and annoyed, even around a mouthful of Spike’s earlobe.  
  
“Not that I don’t enjoy your enthusiasm, pet, but slow down. I’m not goin’ anywhere. And we’ve got an audience. Not that that’s a turn-off.” Spike nods cordially to the dozen or so guys watching the with varying degrees of interest, disgust and wistfulness.  
  
“Can we go back to your place and fuck?” Andrew breathes in Spike’s ear.  
  
“Uh - I live with Xander - close quarters. Don’t imagine he’d be too pleased with hearing the two of us getting better acquainted.”  
  
Andrew finally looks up at Spike, his big blue eyes far from innocent-looking in light of recent events. He scans the crowd, looking over his shoulder, till he spots Adam and Xander, then looks back at Spike with a slow smile.  
  
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Adam’s working his magic. Xander probably won’t get home for at least twelve hours.” Andrew leans in to kiss Spike again. Spike hold him back, frowning.  
  
“Mr. Muscles does this a lot, does he?” Not necessarily a problem, if they remember to use protection. But Xander’s a smart kid. Spike had seen to that.  
  
“Hmm. An interesting question. But no. Not a lot. I’ve just seen Adam around guys he’s interested in. He always gets what he wants. And tonight - he wants Xander.”  
  
“Just for tonight, then?”  
  
Andrew frowns. “I dunno. Xander seems really sweet, and he’s hot in a boy-next-door kinda way. Adam really likes that whole - you know - innocence-vibe. He gets off on it.” Andrew pulls Spike’s hands off his shoulders and down onto his ass again. “Do - do wanna know what  _I_  get off on?”  
  
 _And here I’d thought Johnny Man-mountain was the freak. It’s always the quiet-looking ones. Andrew obviously has this flaky/nerdy act down to a science._  
  
Spike bucks up in his chair, giving the boy a brief taste of what he’s in for later. When the big blue eyes get even bigger, Spike leers in satisfaction.   
  
“But I already know what  _you’re_  gettin’ off on, pet.”  
  
Andrew leans in for another marathon round of face-sucking.  
  
 _Looks like the night’s not a total loss. This kid’s a piranha, no mistake. He’d have eaten Xan alive! Speaking of, I wonder how he’s doing with Adam. . . ._  
  
Spike breaks the kiss and goes for Andrew’s earlobe, a nice pretext for keeping one eye on little bro’s adventures with The Incredible Hulk. Spike looks up just in time to see Xander grab the big lug’s head and yank him down into a kiss a four year old would be ashamed of.  
  
“Slow down, luv, relax,” Spike mutters, biting Andrews ear. The boy yelps.  
  
“Sorry, luv. Guess I got a little excited.”  
  
“No, I liked it. Don’t stop.” Andrew yanks Spike’s gelled hair hard enough that Spike yelps, too.  
  
 _What a little freak! It’s definitely a good thing I rescued Xan from him. Though I may have to rescue Xan from Adam, too._  Spike frowns. Xander has obviously found some technique, toned down the intensity, cranked up the sensuality and is settling into the kiss nicely. Adam seems to have no complaints; those big ham-hands are all over whatever parts of Xander he can reach. And with those apey-long arms, that’s a  _helluva_  lot of prime acreage for the groping.  
  
 _Should be me touching him. Xander’s_ mine _and this over-developed git is gonna have him. Tonight. Do I just fuck Andrew and eat my heart out? I think not. Just because I can’t have him, doesn’t mean any old yobbo can._  
  
“Luv - hate to break the mood but I’m kinda dry.” Spike pries Andrew away from his neck, works the tiny, surprisingly strong hands free of his hair - though he looses quite a few strands in the process. “How about you go get us some more booze, yeah?”   
  
“Right now?” Andrew looks less than happy. He takes Spike’s hand and puts it in his lap. Spike automatically grabs Andrew’s cock and squeezes, just to make the boy moan. nope, hasn’t lost his touch. “If we go back to your place now, I promise I’ll find a way to keep your mouth wet.” Andrew smiles hopefully and wriggles around in Spike’s lap.  
  
“Anyone ever tell you you have a one-track mind, luv?” Andrew’s wriggling is pleasantly distracting, but Spike can also be one-tracked when  _he_  has to be.  
  
“Don’t you wanna fuck me all night long?” The boy looks like he’s about to start sobbing. Spike, soft sod that he is, tries to extricate himself without too much ego-smashing.  
  
“And most of the morning, too. But right now -” Spike takes his hand off of Andrew’s erection and pushes the sulky boy to his feet. “Right now, I’m thirsty. So go get me another Guinness and get yourself another Fresca, or whatever it was you were drinking. Put it on my tab and hurry back.” A slap to the boy’s arse and Andrew’s edging his way through the crowd towards the bar.  
  
As soon as the crowd closes behind Andrew, Spike’s up and shoving his way to Xander and the Muscled-Wonder.  
  


*

  
  
_Lips. . . so. . . happy. . . ._  
  
“‘Is this a private dance or can any bloke cut in?”  
  
“Whuh?” Xander’s blinking up at Adam’s - ear. Yep, ear. Because Adam is looking over at the world’s most annoying older brother.  
  
“Spike -” Xander groans, trying to send the  _buzz off_  signal with his eyes. But Spike’s being willfully obtuse.  
  
“You look a little dry, Xan. Perhaps chivalry-boy, here, can get you a glass of club soda or something.” Spike’s speaking to Adam, but looking Xander in the eyes unblinkingly. Xander has to glance away, focus on something else, anything else.   
  
Hey, look! It’s Adam!  
  
“Would you like me to get you something to drink, Xander?” Adam’s still stroking his back gently.  
  
“Um, that’d be nice, actually,” Xander manages to say, even with Spike’s eyes on him so intently.  
  
“Yeah, and if you see Andy over there, tell him to cool his jets for a bit.” Spike immediately takes Xander in his arms as soon as Adam lets go.  
  
Adam’s eyes tick back and forth between them. Out of the corner of his eyes, Xander can see Spike grinning broadly and his own face is once again on fire. He feels seen, and seen into. By Spike and by Adam. He doesn’t know why.  
  
“I’ll be back, Xander,” Adam says just as Spike dances them both into the crowd.   
  


*

  
  
“So what the fuck is this all about, Spike?” Xander’s voice is tight and angry-sounding. In the face of that, whatever lame excuse Spike comes up with for the cock-blocking he’d promised he wouldn’t do to Xan is going to sound - lame.  
  
“You bringing that pillock home, or what?”  
  
“Why? Afraid we’ll interrupt you and Andrew?” Xander’s voice cracks slightly. Even though Spike’s shorter, he still can’t see Xander’s face, turned down and to the side as it is.  
  
“That’s not what I’m afraid of, pet. I just - I want you to be safe and sure and happy.”  
  
“Then you’re SOL because I’ve only ever felt that way with one person and it ain’t Adam.”  
  
“Who, then?” Spike asks softly.  
  
“Never mind, just - “  
  
“Tell me.” Spike’s angling his head, trying to see Xander’s face. “Not that Anya bint?”  
  
“No, not Anya. She was - nice in her own way, but she was always on the verge of leaving me. I’m surprised it took as long as it did.”  
  
“Who then?” Spike presses. For a moment, thoughts of Angel pop into his head, but he dismisses them as utterly ludicrous. Not only did Angel not care for Xander and vice versa, but -  _eww_ , as Xander might say.  
  
“Spike, don’t push me on this. It doesn’t matter who. They’re so far out of my league - so unreachable - that there’s no way.” Xander’s shaking in his arms, trying to pull away. Spike only holds him tighter.  
  
“The pronoun game, is it?  _They, them, a person_. . . it’s another bloke, is it? Well, that’s okay. Maybe likin’ cock is genetic. Dad’s side of the gene pool, obviously.” Spike adds with a smile.   
  
“Oh, God, Spike, shut up.” Xander’s laughing a little. Not his usual all-out guffaws, but a weak, frightened little giggle.  
  
“Is he kind? Smart? Strong? Handsome? Does he treat you like the treasure you are?”  
  
“Yeah. All of that and more. He’s. . . amazing. I mean, he can be a big jerk, sometimes, but - I think I love the jerkiness, too. He’s - beautiful.”  
  
“Wow.” Spike can’t think of anything else to say that isn’t jealousy thinly-veiled with snark. He’d lost a fight he never had a chance of winning, anyway, to some mystery man that Xan had fallen ass-over-tea-kettle for. “That’s - good, I guess. Nothing but the best for my Xan.”  
  
Xander sighs so softly Spike can‘t hear it, even in the momentary silence of a song ended. But he can feel it. Then a new song is cranking up on the juke.  
  
“He  _is_  the best,” Xander finally says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. And a large chunk of Spike’s heart is suddenly gone. He’d known heartache when Drusilla dumped him at the altar five years ago. Then again when Angel dumped him twice: six months into their equally ill-fated relationship, then again three weeks before they moved in together.  
  
Those times had been horrible, soul-wrenching. Pits of black despair he’d barely been able to climb out of with his sanity intact. But this felt like -  
  
Nothing at all. Just a big, empty nothing where some perverted hope used to live. Hope that there was some infinitesimal chance that one day, Xan would look at him and  _know_  and reciprocate and -  
  
 _The road is long  
With many a winding turn  
That leads us to who knows where  
Who knows when  
  
Oh. God. Not this, not now,_ is all Spike can think as Rufus Wainright’s golden voice spreads over the crowd like honey. The slightly frantic pace of the floor slows perceptibly, voices lower.  
  
 _But I'm strong  
Strong enough to carry him  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother. . . ._  
  
This isn’t exactly a slow-groove song, yet Spike can’t seem to do anything  _but_  slow-groove and hold Xander much more closely than is wise. Any closer and Xander’s going to learn a new and very surprising fact about his big brother. As it is, Spike’s hands itch to explore the warm, firm body he’s holding, lean in and -  
  
Kiss him. Hold him. Have him. Love him.  
  
 _God, since the day we met, maybe. . . That’s all I’ve wanted to do since the day we met. And he’ll never know how I feel, never know that - though this pillock he’s lost his heart to can’t appreciate him, return his love, that_ someone does _. Even if it’s just his perv of a big brother._  
  
 _So on we go  
His welfare is of my concern  
No burden is he to bear  
We'll get there  
For I know  
He would not encumber me. . . ._  
  
Spike takes a breath and - before he can think better of it - pulls Xander flush against him. Xander tries to get away, but he can’t. And it’d be too late even if he could. Spike can feel how hard Xander is, Xander can surely feel how hard Spike is, hear the little gasp a subtle shift of their bodies drags out of Spike.  
  
“Oh, God,” Xander sighs, leaning his forehead on Spike’s shoulder. Spike immediately buries his face in thick, dark hair. Smells herbal shampoo and some dark, sweet scent that will always mean  _Xander_  to him.  
  
He shudders deeply as Xander’s arms clinch around his waist. Xander’s whole body relaxes, as if a weight’s been lifted off of him and the shoulder of Spike’s shirt is suddenly very wet.  
  


*

  
  
_If I'm laden at all  
I'm laden with sadness  
That everyone's heart  
Isn't filled with the gladness  
Of love for one another._  
  
He knows.   
  
Spike  _knows_  and Xander can’t bear to face the revulsion that must be written on his brother’s face.   
  
 _Xander’s_  always known, but could pretend he didn’t.  _Wasn’t_. As long as he was never asked, Xander didn’t have to tell, didn’t have to lie. And Xander can’t lie to save his life. Spike had never asked, so Xander simply never said -  
  
 _It's a long, long road  
From which there is no return_  
  
“It’s you, Spike. Always been you,” Xander murmurs into Spike’s shoulder. It feels like there’s a weight lifting off of his  _soul_ , but it also feels like dying, too, because he’s just lost Spike. Sure, he can feel how hard Spike is against him, hear the gasps as their jean-covered erections grind together. But it’s all instinct on Spike’s part. Has to be. When Spike realizes what he’s - what  _they’re_ doing, he’ll run screaming out into the street.  
  
“Xan - luv. Look at me.” Spike’s voice sounds strange. Like there’s something in his throat.  
  
 _While we're on the way to there  
Why not share  
And the load._  
  
Xander lifts his head and clears his own throat. He still can’t look Spike in the eyes.   
  
“Don’t cry, pet. It’ll be okay. I’ll  _make_  it okay, I promise.”  
  
“I’m so sorry, Spike.” So sorry he’s still pressing his body into Spike’s, afraid of the moment Spike will finally push him away for good.  
  
“Don’t be. I’m not.”  
  
“I mess everything up.” Messed himself up, messed Spike up. Brought this - weirdness into Spike’s life.  
  
“Same here. Must be a genetic thing, as well.”  
  
Xander doesn’t want to laugh again, but he does.   
  
The humor in their situation is dark, but there.   
  
“‘S not your fault, pet. I’m the older one. If anyone shoulda stopped this -  _coulda_  stopped these feelings, it’s me.”  
  
“No, not even my mom was as nice to me as you’ve been, Spike. You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel like - like I have _family_. I’ve managed to hide the way I feel for so long. . . only to lose it over a song from fuckin’  _Zoolander_. I’m such a fuck up!”  
  
“Don’t take on, so. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Spike’s hand is stroking his back soothingly, much like Adam had, only the comfort is quickly turning into want. And therein lies the problem.  
  
“But I  _want_  to, Spike.” Xander looks up at last, eyeliner-dark tears running down his face. “I want to do  _wrong things_  with you. I have since the day we met.”  
  


*

  
  
_Doesn't weigh me down at all  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.  
He's my brother  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother_  
  
“Luv, luv.” Spike croons joyfully, miserably.   
  
 _Broken. Love broke us into a million pieces,_  is all he can think as he rocks his brother to the sweet, somehow sad song. “I said I’ll make it alright and I will.”  
  
That’s total bullshit. There’s nothing that can ever make this right. Ignoring it had at least made it bearable, but that’s not exactly an option, anymore. There are some things best left unsaid. The biggest of those things  _ever_  is at last making its presence felt between them. It’s the white elephant and it’s finally stepping on both their toes because they’ve been ignoring the damn thing since day one.  
  
 _He's my brother  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother._  
  
“I tried my best to - protect you from the things I’ve been feeling. I thought I had, that - when I left you’d -” Spike laughs bitterly, wiping at the greyish tears-tracks on his brother’s shocked and miserable face. “You are so young, so pure - you have so much possibility that mustn’t be squandered or corrupted or twisted out of true. I’d do anything to protect that. To protect  _you_.”  
  
“I’m a grown man, Spike. I don’t need protecting.” Xander says, a flash of anger in his wet, dark eyes. It disappears as quickly as it came. “I just didn’t want you to hate me for feeling the way I do, but you feel it, too?” Xander does a pelvic shimmy that makes Spike’s eyes close. “You really feel it, too.”  
  
“If I could take it back - make you not feel this and know that I feel it, too, I would,” Spike says, unable to open his eyes. He knows what he’ll see on Xander’s face. The same thing that’s all over his own.   
  
Hope.   
  
“But I wouldn’t want you to.” Xander’s fingers brush Spike’s face reverently, shaking only a little. Spike opens his eyes to exactly what he’d feared, only in greater intensity. No one had ever looked at him the way Xander is looking at him. The want and  _need_  in the boy burns so hotly, his gaze scorches Spike’s soul.   
  
“Spike, If there’s a chance, a way we could be together -”  
  
“There’s not.” Spike’s voice quavers and he clears his throat. Not tears clogging him. There must be a cat in the bar somewhere. Something’s triggering his allergies. “There’s  _no chance_ , do you understand? There’s no way this can be acted upon or given in to. There’s no  _moral_  way -”  
  
“I don’t give two shits about morality,” Xander says flatly and with a conviction that Spike has never heard in his voice before. “I care about what  _you_  think, but the rest of world and all the morality in it could go take a long walk if I have a chance to be yours, Spike - I  _love_  you. And not just in a brotherly way.”  
  
Xander’s leaning in, eyes closing, the hand at Spike’s waist urging him closer, the other hand still stroking Spike’s face. Spike knows he should pull away, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Scared-confused little brother he can deal with. He’d been prepared to deal with Xander-the-shambles, but this Xander -  
  
\- is kissing him. A soft, gentle brushing of lips and darting of tongue that nonetheless electrifies Spike like he’d Frenched a wall-socket. It’s the intensity of that contact that makes him pull away from the kiss, more than any real sense of wrongness.  
  
“It’s too much, Xan. I can’t deal with this. We can’t be together like this. What would people say - God, what would my -  _our_  father say when he found out? I’m not strong enough to do this,” Spike admits, feeling defeated and vaguely guilty. But he’s resisted temptation, the worst he is likely to  _ever_  come across. He should feel strong and resolute and - less like crying.  
  
“Not if you try to deal alone. But you heard Rufus.  _Why not share the load? Doesn’t weigh me down at all_. . . .” Xander sings, smiling. Even with raccoon eyes and make-up tracks drying on his face, he’s the loveliest thing Spike has ever seen. “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother. He’s the man I love and always will love. And he loves me, too. Please. Let me make you happy, Spike.”  
  
Spike blinks. Wants. Considers.   
  
And that momentary consideration scares him. Considering what Xander’s suggesting scares him more than anything has ever scared him.  
  
Spike pulls out of Xander’s arms, stumbling into the couple right behind him. “I can’t do this, pet - Xander, not my pet. My brother. My little brother. Can’t do this. I -” The look of absolute desolation on Xander’s face, that’d been so happy and hopeful and shining a moment ago, drives Spike off into the crowd, in the direction the bar, because Spike needs about half a bottle of Jack.   
  
He needs oblivion. If only for a little while.  
  


*

  
  
As the last of Rufus tapers off, Xander stands alone, stock-still in the middle of the dancing crowd, eyes closed because it’s the only thing that’ll keep the tears from falling.  
  
“What have I done? What have I done?” He realizes he’s saying it aloud, but that doesn’t matter. If people think he’s crazy, so what? They’d be totally right. He’s driven off the only family he has left that wants anything to do with him.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Xander jumps at the large hand that settles gently on his shoulder, doesn’t resist when he’s pulled into a tight embrace that should be crushing and claustrophobic but isn’t. He wonders how much of what just happened Adam saw.   
  
“That looked - rather intense.”  
  
“Intense. Yeah.” Xander pulls out of Adam’s arms, unable to look at him. He doesn’t know what Adam saw, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t  _care_. But he knows he’s in no shape to deal with anyone’s pity or scorn or revulsion. Not when he feels like he’s going to shatter.  
  
“Would you like me to drive you home or - do you need someplace else to stay tonight? Until. . . things settle?”  
  
It doesn’t matter, does it? After tonight he’ll probably never see Spike again, so what does anything matter? There’s no one left. Not one. Damn. Person.  
  
Or is there?  
  
“Yes.” Xander turns to look at Adam, face those curious hazel eyes. If there’s revulsion there, or anything other than warm concern, Xander can’t see it. But then, he hadn’t been Captain Perception at any point this evening, had he?  
  
Xander grimaces, hopes it looks enough like a smile to pass muster. “Yes. Please drive me home.”   
  


*

  
  
Xander’s key is barely in the lock before the door is opened and he’s pulled inside.  
  
One look at Xander’s swollen eyes and make-up smeared face and Angel’s frowning.  
  
“What happened? Are you okay?” There’s tenderness in Angel’s voice and in the hand that strokes Xander’s cold, wet cheek.  
  
Xander opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.  
  
“Did someone hurt you?” Scarily perceptive, dark eyes lock onto Xander’s own eyes searchingly. Angel, the semi-friend and occasional lover has been replaced by Det. Liam Riordan of the NYPD’s 42nd Precinct. “Answer me, Xander.”   
  
“I. No. Please.” Since when did so few words ever represent such a drain on the Xan-man’s energy?   
  
“What? Tell me what you need and I’ll do my best to help. You’re scaring me, Xan.” Now it’s  _Angel_  looking at him, again; the cop’s gone, back into hiding. That makes this next bit a lot easier.  
  
“I need you to fuck me. No questions, no banter, and don’t try to mind-fuck me, or I’m gone. For good. Just - please.” And Xander’s already unbuttoning Angel’s shirt, unable to meet those eyes anymore. He never could keep a secret from Angel. Had given up trying, till now.  
  
Angel’s still glowering at him, brooding. He opens his mouth to say something.  
  
Xander’s turning and walking to the door before he realizes he’s moving.  
  
At last, Angel seems to take him at his word. He silently pulls Xander away from the front door and walks him over to the couch.   
  
For the usual.


	7. 7

“. . . so, then Warren was all, like, ‘Andrew, you monkey, don’t drink that third Zima or you’ll throw up’, but then I totally  _did_  drink the third Zima, and I threw up and it was really painful and I wished I had listened to Warren.”  
  
Spike throws back a shot of Jack. Ninth? Tenth? Who knows? Who cares?  
  
“Your point is?”  
  
“I guess my point is - you’ve had too much and you’re so gonna throw up because you’re not listening to me.”  
  
“‘M listening, just not paying any heed. Keep talking. It’s very - distracting.” Spike glares at the bartender, who tries to take the rapidly emptying bottle of Jack Daniels. When Spike growls, the bartender raises his hands in surrender and backs away.  
  
“That was kinda mean. He’s only being a responsible bartender and trying to look out for your best interests.” Andrew’s face is getting less and less happy by the second. He seems none-too impressed with Spike, at the moment.  _Spike_  is none-too impressed with Spike at the moment.  
  
“I could out-drink everyone at this bar put together and still be able to do my taxes.”  
  
“Um, that’s - impressive.”  
  
“Bloody fuck-yeah, it is.”  
  
“Speaking of cabs, maybe I should call you one. You know, so you don’t have to ride the subway so dru- I mean, ride the subway when everything runs so crappy and slow at this time of night.”  
  
Spike glances over at Andrew. The boy looks worried and slightly frightened. But not much more than he always seems too. Certainly this pipsqueak doesn’t think Spike’s too pissed to make it home alone on the subway?  
  
“I’ll take a cab if you’ll take it with me. . . ever given a bloke a hand-job in a taxi, luv?” Spike leers, nearly falls off his stool. Only Andrew’s quick grab of his arm saves him.  
  
“Dude, you are so drunk.”  
  
“Bloody Miss Marple, you are.”  
  
“Drunkenness is not really a turn on for me,” Andrew says, fidgeting, not meeting Spike’s eyes.  
  
“That so? Perfect. First I get passed over by Muscle-boy, now I’m getting the brush off from  _you_  - that’s just bloody perfect!” Spike pours himself another shot. Waits for the bar to stop spinning a little so he doesn’t spill when he drinks.  
  
“If you - I dunno, wanted to get together for an alcohol-free brunch, or something, that’d be nice,” Andrew says, putting on a bright smile. Spike snorts.  
  
“I’m not your bloody girlfriend, tosser. I don’t do brunch. Especially not pity-brunches. Sod off. Maybe it’s not too late for you to pout your way into Adam’s bed.”  
  
“Oh, Adam left a little while ago. With Xander.”  
  
Spike thinks his hearing’s gone barmy on him. Andrew can’t have said -  
  
“Wait - what the fuck did you just say?” Spike’s pulling Andrew close by the collar of his shirt. The huge, frightened blue eyes are all he can see.  
  
“Adam took your brother home - but I don’t think they’re gonna - you know. Adam said Xander didn’t feel too well and that he was gonna drive him home. He should be getting back here any minute.”  
  
“Granted, traffic is pretty thin this time of night, but getting from here to 149th St. is more than a jaunt. No one drives someone they barely know  _that_  far - just to say good-night at the fucking door.” Spike lets Andrew go scornfully, turns back to his drink. It goes down just as easily as the previous eight or nine. The coming up will be another story, entirely.  
  
“But - don’t you guys live in Alphabet City? That’s where Adam said he was going. He and Xander coulda walked that in about fifteen minutes if Xander wasn’t feeling so bad. Maybe  _he_  had too much to drink, too,” Andrew muses, watching Spike pour another drink, most of which actually makes it into the shot glass.  
  
“Used to live in Alphabet City, luv. But not no more. My ex still lives there, though Xander couldn’t be going to see that poofter -” Spike pauses, the shot halfway to his mouth. A bunch of pieces and clues are clicking into place. And he can hear Angel’s voice in his head, saying “I have company. . . .”  
  
And that scent that had hung around him was - well, the scent of two people fucking, yeah, but something else, too. Familiar, sweet, so very tempting -  
  
“That was  _Xander. Company_  was Xander.” Spike mumbles, putting down his shot, eyes as wide as saucers. Then as angry as a thunderstorm. “ _My_  Xander was  _company_!”  
  
“Uh, Spike -”  
  
“I’m gonna tear his neck out!” Spike roars, jumping up, then tripping over his stool to go sprawling on the floor. The bar has gone silent, but for the jukebox. Everyone is studiously ignoring Spike.  
  
“Um. Yeah. But maybe I should call you a cab first? That way, you can tear whoever-he-is’s neck out in the morning after you’ve had a chance to sober up,” Andrew suggests with a friendly, helpful smile. Spike only glares up at him, then slaps away the offered hand up.  
  


*

  
  
“Excuse me, gorgeous, are you looking for your blond friend?”  
  
Adam, who’s just gotten back to the bar after taking his erstwhile date home, turns to look at the tall, dark-haired bartender just as he puts a drink down on the bar.   
  
“That depends on which blond friend you’re speaking of,” Adam says picking up the drink. Then he realizes he didn’t order it. He gives the bartender a questioning look.  
  
“Go ahead, sugar-lump, it’s on the house. So’m I, if you’re interested.” The bartender winks and laughs. “Okay, so, blonde number one nearly busted up the joint in his haste to make tracks. Said something about Alphabet City and ripping someone’s throat out.” A shudder. “Thankfully, he’s gone and all my patrons are still alive. Blond number two, sweet-looking little thing, about yea tall? He’s dancing with one of our regulars. . . Jonathan’s a weird guy, but harmless. Your friend is fine.”  
  
“Ah,” Adam says. It’s all he  _can_  say to that flood of information. He looks back into the crowd, does a quick scan and spots Andrew, flopping around enthusiastically. His partner - Jonathan - is barely moving, trying too hard not to look as spastic as Andrew does. But Andrew appears to be fine, and that’s what matters.   
  
And Xander will - hopefully - be fine, as well. He hadn’t said a single word during the short drive to Alphabet City and Adam didn’t have the heart to bring up what was obviously a painful and taboo subject. Then, all too quickly, Xander was gone, with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and no good-bye.   
  
Adam is no student of human behavior, but Xander and Spike’s patently obvious infatuation with each other was as deep as it was consuming. But genuine interest in Xander had prodded Adam to try to get between the brothers despite that.   
  
 _That_  plan had been an unqualified success if one overlooked its abject failure.  
  
“They make a strange, but cute couple.  _C’est l’amour_.” The bartender nods towards Andrew and Jonathan.  
  
“I suppose.” Adam contemplates his unasked-for drink. “What is this? I don’t recognize it.”  
  
“Honey, it’s a  _Seabreeze_ , and if you’ve never had one, you’re in for a real treat.” The bartender pats Adam’s arm, lingers a moment longer than necessary. “Ooh, someone’s been eating their Wheaties.”  
  
“I actually have a rather complex diet, consisting of several protein bundles and a strict regimen of -”  
  
“M’yeah, fascinating - say, what’s your name, stranger?” Dark green eyes sparkle at him.  
  
“Adam.”  
  
“How biblical. Well, nice to meet you, Adam. I’m Lorne and I’ll be  _your_  bartender.” Lorne’s smile turns sultry, but still twitches in kind amusement. His teeth are very white in a face that is very tanned.  
  
After a moment of vertigo - this night has gone strangely and not at all as he’d predicted - Adam smiles back. And laughs.  
  
It turns out Lorne is right. Seabreezes  _are_  quite a treat. By the time last call rolls around, Adam’s on his third one, laughing and feeling strangely fine as he accepts an invite back to Lorne’s place.  
  


*

  
  
After a bleary stagger to Alphabet City and nearly getting into a fight with a crazy and aggressive wino, Spike is at his ex-boyfriend’s apartment building, staring up at the only row of lighted windows.  
  
Angel’s apartment. He feels a wave of hate/jealousy/rage wash over him.  
  
What exactly he plans to do is a mystery. Can’t just barge in there. Doesn’t have a key. And once he gets in -assuming Angel even lets him in - what does he say to Xan - sorry? Bloody ha!   
  
Spike has a feeling that whatever he can think to say to Xan that isn’t: “I want you, too” will be inadequate and unappreciated. And even if Angel’s taking advantage of Xander’s emotional state - and probably has been doing since Spike had left, yes, that has a ring of horrible truth to it - Xander’s still better off with Angel than he’d ever be with Spike.  
  
Spike turns away from the stoop, meaning to go back to Xander’s apartment, pack his things and get on the next plane to _anywhere_  that wasn’t near Xander and Angel.   
  
 _I can’t. I can’t leave him here to be used and - kept by Angel. Even if the poofter's intentions were pure as the driven snow, he’d try to control Xander, just like he tried to control me. He’d wind up wrecking the boy’s life - I can’t just walk away. Not without rearranging that neanderthal face. Not without making sure Xan is as okay as he was going to get under the circumstances.  
  
But I can’t just go in there ready to kick ass and propose marriage, can I? I need a game plan. I need time to think, I need -   
  
I need advice._  
  
Spike’s unhooking his cellphone before making a conscious decision to do so. He’s not sure what time it is across the pond, but as far as he’s concerned, this is a justifiable emergency. Spike needs his father’s level-headed practicality. He needs someone to shake him and ask him if he’s gone quite mad, because Spike is sure he  _has_  gone quite mad.  
  
And the only person that could ever talk Spike’s down off the crazy-tower - other than Xander - is Rupert. He always knows what to say, what to do to make everything clear.  
  
At the first ring, Spike sits gratefully on Angel’s stoop.  
  


*

  
  
“Giles-Rayne residence.”  
  
“Hullo, step-mummy.”  
  
“William. What a pleasant surprise at such an early hour.” Spike winces, but then, Ethan Rayne has always made him wince. “How are you, other than awake?”  
  
“Soldiering on, like - some soldiering-thing. You?”  
  
“In the bloom of health.”  
  
“Smashing. Look, is dad ‘round?”  
  
“Not until late this evening. He has business in Edinburgh.”  
  
“Bugger. Right, then. If you could have him ring me up when he gets back, it’s really important -”  
  
“What is it that you need, William, that prompts you to call here at 6:03 in the morning? It must be important. To you, anyway. Perhaps I can help.”  
  
“Well, it’s a situation on which I need advice. Practical advice. Rupert Giles advice, if you follow me.”  
  
“And my advice wouldn’t be practical, is that it?” Ethan Rayne’s voice is perilously close to laughter. The man grates on Spike horribly.  
  
“No, I didn’t mean - I just meant that dad’s so very  _logical_  and rational and - practical -”  
  
“Tell me, William, how is your brother? How is Alexander?”  
  
Dead silence from two different countries. Even the static has faded into silence.  
  
“See? Perhaps I might be able to shed a little - practical advice on your situation, after all. Now, be a good boy and tell step-mummy everything.”  
  
“Ethan -”  
  
“In the past year-plus that you’ve been touring, Alexander’s changed, yes?”  
  
“Yes. No. One of those.”  
  
“Fallen in with a bad set?”  
  
“A bad  _person_. Bad for Xan, anyway.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
That  _ah_  is so knowing, so dry, Spike begins to wonder what exactly Ethan knows or thinks he knows. “Uh. . . . “  
  
“I imagine this bad influence is romantically linked with our darling boy.”  
  
Spike snorts. “ _Romantically_  linked? I think not. Bastard doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body And Xan is  _not_  having a _romance_  with him. But Angel’s been fucking him for at least a year. Christ, I shudder to think of how he must be treating Xander.”  
  
“What I shudder to think of is your poor father trying to give anyone advice on affairs of the heart. Quite a chilling thought.”  
  
“I told you, this isn’t an affair of the heart! Angel and Xander -”  
  
“I wasn’t talking about  _their_  hearts, William.”   
  
Spike’s suddenly looking at his cellphone, laying on the ground because he’s dropped it. Well, there goes that fancy picture-taking feature. Easy come, easy go.  
  
 _He knows. Ethan knows. How the bloody hell -_  
  
Spike’s snatching up his phone, dusting it off. He puts it to his ear just as Ethan’s richly amused voice starts speaking.  
  
“Still there?”  
  
“You know, then?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“How?” Spike’s lips - his entire face is numb.  
  
“Call it step-mum’s intuition.”  
  
“I’m sure there’s more to it than that. Step-mummy, dearest.”  
  
“Hmm, could it possibly be that all you ever talk about on any of your visits is Alexander? Even though you know it breaks your father’s heart every time you do?”  
  
Spike feels a pang of guilt that he quickly suppresses. “Dad made his choices, Ethan. I’ve nothing to feel guilty for.”  
  
“Of course you don’t, William. We  _all_  make our own choices, even Alexander.”  
  
“He’s just a boy -”  
  
“He’s almost nineteen and living on his own for nearly a year, if I’m not mistaken,” Ethan points out.  
  
“Angel’s taking advantage of him. I left him in that wanker’s care - trusted him to look after  _my boy_  while I -”  
  
“Ran away from the way you feel for him.”  
  
“Yeah. . . .”  
  
“We all make our choices, William.”  
  
“My choice, my fault, yes, I get that. But why does Xan have to pay for my blindness? He didn’t choose Angel, Angel  _chose him_. Tosser likes ‘em young and vulnerable.”  
  
“He may actually care for your brother, if that’s any consolation.”  
  
“I assure you, it’s not.”  
  
“In light of your predicament, I imagine it wouldn’t be. Poor boy.”  
  
“‘S not a predicament. What I want is  _wrong_. It’s a phase and it’ll pass. As long as I don’t give in to it.” Spike had been telling himself that for some time, now. Perhaps if he  _kept_  telling himself, he’d believe it in another year or two.  
  
“And if you give in, what then?”  
  
“That’s not even an issue, Xan’s -” Not interested? Hah! “He would completely -” Freak out? Yeah, right out of his clothes.  
  
“Look, Xan’s been fucked over by too many adults in his life. I’m not going to be one more.”  
  
“It seems to me you’re overlooking the possibility that your brother - who is also an adult, William - feels the same way you do.”  
  
 _I know he does. Know he_ thinks _he does. . . ._  
  
“Even if - and this is only an  _if_ , mind - if he were to return my feelings, there’s still no way anything could happen between us. Our feelings don’t matter. What we want is wrong, immoral - unnatural -”  
  
“Then why, may I ask, did you call?”  
  
“I -” Why had he called? If his mind was already made up, why in bleeding hell did he ring Ethan up at such an ungodly hour, just to pester him with irrelevant questions?  
  
“I  _do_  love our little chats, step-mummy,” Spike snarks, feeling caught out in a lie, or seen through, or something that involves Ethan's unnerving ability to cut right through five solid layers of bullshit.  
  
The silence from the other side of the Atlantic is drawing out.  
  
“Still there?” Spike asks, unconsciously copying Ethan’s previous words and tone.  
  
“I’m still here, WIlliam. I have something to say to you and you’ll be totally silent when I say it, or I’ll wish you a good day and leave you to your brooding and no doubt drinking.”  
  
“Not a peep,” Spike promises, curious enough not to tell his wicked step-mum to go fuck himself.  
  
“Love -  _real love_  - isn’t about selflessness and self-sacrifice or any of that ridiculous dreck people moan about in movies. Love is obsession. Deep, dark, nearly impossible to climb out of. Love knows no reason, no obstacles, no morality. In it’s purest, most honest form, love is cutthroat, manipulative and ultimately self-destructive. It’s  _greed_ , William, and it goes after what it wants no holds barred.  
  
“So. If you love truly, you’ll have him no matter what stands in your way, be it career, marriage or family. Or, in your case, shared chromosomes.” Ethan’s voice is as casual and pleasant as always, but there’s something darker under it. Something less substantial than inflection and more substantial than just Spike’s imagination.  
  
Career, marriage, family. The three things Rupert had given up willingly, just to be with Ethan.  
  
Spike still doesn’t forgive his father’s choice, or Ethan’s intrusion into their family. He knows he never will. But he understands. For the first time in twenty years, Spike understands his father. And he understands Ethan Rayne’s motivations perfectly.  
  
Such a pleasant thought, that.  
  
But Spike would give up everything he has - everything he  _is_  - to be able to hold Xander, make love to him, wake up next to him. To see that sweet, lovely smile every morning, and all for him -  
  
“You’re rather silent. For you, anyway. No recriminations? No questions?”  
  
“About a million, actually. But only one that’s relevant: How the hell do I tell my little brother that I’ve gone and fallen in love with him?” Even as he’s saying it, Spike is laughing. It’s such an absurd, unbelievable, pathetic little statement and every word of it is irrevocably true.  
  
And this is the first time Ethan’s laughter has been  _with_  him and not  _at_  him.  
  
“The same way you just told me, perhaps? Forthrightness seems to be one of your strengths. Considering the deficit of charm you’ll be entering this with, being blunt is probably best.”  
  
Once again, Ethan Rayne is laughing  _at_  him. The world is back on its axis.  
  
“What if Xan doesn’t genuinely return my feelings? What if it's a phase for him? What if he tells me to sod off and never bother him again? What if -?”  _What if he tells me he’s fallen in love with Angel?_  
  
“Then you’d be out of luck, wouldn’t you?” Ethan sounds impatient with him, now. “Love is risk, William. Who dares, wins. In time, perhaps after he’s settled in, married some nice girl and started a family, you’ll realize you have no choice left  _but_  telling him. . .”   
  
Spike has an unpleasant flashback twenty years. He’s seven years old and his parents are fighting. His mum is yelling, but not at his father. . . at Ethan. His father’s so embarrassed, and only half-dressed and - everything is hazy and confusing. . . . like seeing his childhood through a smokescreen.  
  
Spike shudders.  
  
“Or you can do it now, while neither of you has anything to lose but each other.”  
  
“Alright, alright - say I do tell him, and he feels the same. What next?”  
  
“Take him to bed and keep him too busy to think better of it. I find that method works rather well.” The wicked, wistful smile in Ethan’s voice is disturbing on so many levels, Spike can’t even begin to count them all.  
  
“Another unwanted news brief from the too-much-information desk.”  
  
A disdainful silence, then:  
  
“You’ve lived in the States for too long."  
  
“Obviously. But I have to be where Xan is, don’t I?”  
  
“Maybe the same is true for your brother. There’s only one way to find out and it’s not by talking on the phone with me.” Ethan hints broadly, already sounding bored. But Spike has one last question.  
  
“What would I tell people? What would I tell  _dad_?” That’s assuming Ethan doesn’t tell, but Spike doesn’t think he will.  
  
“If it even comes to that, you’ll figure something out, I’m sure. Every so often you exhibit a little of your father’s intelligence. You’ll think of something.”  
  
“Oh. . . .” Was that a compliment? Did it even answer his question?  
  
“Right. Well, if that’s all, not that it hasn’t been lovely hearing from you. . . .”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Thanks for the pep-talk, step-mummy -”  
  
Nothing but dial tone. Ethan’s already rung off.  
  
“Bloody great queen of a poofter.” Spike’s doesn’t realize he’s smiling, might have to punch the person who’d even  _suggest_  he’d ever smile after time spent talking with Ethan Rayne.  
  
Spike stands up. Stretches. Waits for the world to stop lurching. The Jack’ll stay down, but Spike’ll regret it in the morning. Unless the night ends the way he hopes it will. If it does he’ll be grinning like a loon through the hangover and whatever it chooses to fling at him.  
  
He looks up at Angel’s window. The lights are still on.  
  
“I’m right here, Xan. . . coming to get ya, luv.”


	8. 8

The sound of the door’s intercom/buzzer is startling and unwanted.  
  
Already awake, Angel gets out of bed, careful not to awaken Xander. He pulls on his t-shirt and sweats and pauses in the doorway to take one last look at the boy. His face is still a mess of dried tears and eyeliner.   
  
Angel feels a mix of worry, anger, desire, tenderness and confusion whenever he sees Xander looking so innocent and vulnerable. He’d think it was love if he was feeling it for anyone but Xander Harris. But on nights like this, he wonders.  
  
Resisting the rather powerful urge to go back just to kiss Xander on the forehead, Angel goes down the hall to the small box mounted next to the apartment door.  
  
“What is it, Spike?”  
  


*

  
  
_Bleedin’ hell - how'd he know?  
  
Well, don’t suppose anyone else’d come over this late besides, Xan -_  
  
Spike swallows the rage that thought brings and leans closer to the speaker. “Can I come up? Need to talk to you about something.”  
  
“Is that so?” Tinny-voiced suspicion.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And that something would be -?”  
  
 _Damnit! The poof always had a sixth sense for trouble. Maybe if I throw some truth at him -_  
  
“It’s Xander, he’s - we went out and I tried to set him up with this guy and I guess he wasn’t ready - he left without saying anything and I’m worried. He’s not home and I don’t know where he is.”  
  
“And you want me to do what, exactly?”  
  
“Don’t want you to  _do_  anything, I just wanted to talk to someone, you know? A friend? You did say that we’d  _always_  be friends, remember? S’pose  _I’m_  the stupid sod for taking you at your word, yeah? And our three blissful years together, of course, mean nothing to you -”  
  
“ _Blissful_?!” The outraged, disdainful squawk comes across quite clearly.  
  
“- all those times I put up with your ridiculous cop buddies lounging around  _my_  apartment, smoking and drinking and saying crude things about their wives -”  
  
“Spike, it was a bi-monthly poker night and as I recall you conned most of them out of their money! A poker game with you has more aces than all of Vegas and Reno combined and do you have  _any_  idea what time it is?”  
  
“What do I look like? Big Ben? Are you gonna let me come up or not?”  
  
“How ‘bout not?”  
  
“Angel. . . please?”   
  
Spike smiles when an immediate  _no!_  doesn’t crackle out of the speaker. That particular Tone was responsible for getting Spike out of trouble with tougher blokes than Angel. Half Oliver Twist, half Mick Jagger, The Tone always works like a charm.  
  
A sigh that Spike can feel but not hear, then the speaker box spits out: “Okay. But only for a little while. And you have to keep it down.”  
  
“Company again?” Asked in a voice so casual, Spike briefly considers going into acting. “You’re getting more arse now than you did before we broke up.”  
  
“You know, the more you talk, the less I feel like letting you come up, Spike.”  
  
“Alright! I promise I’ll be on my Ps and Qs, I just - I don’t know what else to do, Angel. I don’t wanna be alone.” Spike doesn’t know if that tiny amount of quaver in his voice comes across through the shitty speaker, but it sure doesn’t hurt.   
  
It’s the little touches that make a performance like this brilliant.  
  
“Come on up.” The door buzzes. Spike yanks it open and darts inside, restraining the urge to run full-tilt up the stairs. If the poofter hears a 10K race coming up the stairs he’ll probably get suspicious.  
  
By the time Spike reaches the third landing, however, he’s grinning. In the darkened stairwell, the rectangle of soft light that represents his ex’s open door shines like a beacon.  
  
Xander’s in there.  
  
 _Angel didn’t used to be this gullible,_  Spike reflects as he crosses the threshhold.  _Guess all that Xander-lovin’s made him complacent and_ la-de-dah _. But not for much longer._  
  
“You’ll be pissin’ blood for a week when I’m done, mate. Make no mistake,” Spike mutters, taking a moment to brace himself. “Shouldn’ta touched my boy.”  
  
Wearing a grin that would strike fear in the heart of a Redwood, Spike strides into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He moves down the hallway, toward the livingroom, eagerly anticipating punching the glower off that over-sized, Irish melon.   
  
“Oi, poof, looks like this ain’t y’ lucky night, after all,” Spike announces to - the empty livingroom.   
  
After one puzzled moment, Spike kicks himself -  _in the kitchen, git, he’s in the bloody kitchen!_  - and turns to go back down the hall, thence to find Angel and put the bastard’s teeth down his throat.  
  
Spike doesn’t even have time to register the huge fist coming towards his face. All he sees are exploding stars and, immediately following them, darkness.  
  


*

  
  
“Ow. . . .”  
  
“Serves you right, Spike. Here, put this on your jaw.”  
  
Spike opens his eyes to blurred colors and a splitting headache. Something green and white is moving back and forth in front of his face like the world’s oddest cobra. After a few blinks, the object resolves into a bag of frozen peas.  
  
As if the peas are somehow a reminder of all that’s happened tonight, Spike’s snatching them only to lob them right at his enemy’s big, block head.  
  
Apparently the Jack and the sucker-punch have taken their toll on Spike’s motor skills. The peas don’t even come to within a foot of hitting Angel’s head. The bastard doesn’t even have to duck.  
  
“You bloody - faithless - weaselly - jerk-face!” Yes, the Jack and the sucker-punch have definitely taken their toll.  
  
“You promised you’d keep your voice down,” Angel says, frowning enormously.  
  
“Fuck my bloody voice!”  
  
“Do you wanna wake Xander? He’s had a pretty rough night, or didn’t you know?”   
  
Spike opens his mouth, then shuts it, having nothing clever to come back with.   
  
Momentarily shelving the idea of standing up and getting into a tussle with Angel-on-his-guard - a much dimmer prospect for beating than Angel-off-his-guard - Spike leans back and shuts out the spinning room.  
  
“How the fuck did you know that I knew?”  
  
“You’re not exactly the world’s best actor, Spike, even when you use  _The Tone_. And Xander told me what happened.”  
  
Spike cracks one eye open to look at Angel. Angel’s sitting in the chair across from him, watching him with that same frown.  
  
“Don’t you fuckin’ judge me, you old pervert. Left him in your care and this is how you repay my trust?”  
  
“Trust? Spike, you obviously have some kind of selective amnesia.” Angel’s laugh is bitter. “You didn’t leave him with me because you trusted  _me_  so much as you  _ran away_  because you didn’t trust  _yourself_. Or don’t you remember all the threesomes you talked me into where the other guy just happened to look a hell of a lot like your brother? Or all the times you moaned Xander’s name while I was fucking you? Any of that ring a bell?”  
  
Spike’s mouth had been getting thinner and thinner until it was little more than a thin, mean slash in his pale, sharp face.  
  
“Throw that in my face all you want. Doesn’t change the fact that you fucked my little brother. He’s young and incorrigible and -”  
  
“Old enough to make his own choices, Spike.” Angel sounds exasperated.  
  
“Was he old enough the first time you fucked him? Hmm? He moved out just after he turned eighteen and I moved out at least two months before that. So. Tell me again about how adult Xander is and how he’s old enough to choose who he sleeps with. Tell me some more, you hypocritical fuck.”  
  
Angel looks away from Spike and stands up, pacing to the livingroom entryway, then back.  
  
“I’m not saying I wasn’t in the wrong, here -”  
  
“Oh! Jolly good, then, that makes it all better! Ta, very much and I’ll be heading on home! Wanker.” Spike sneers. “Tell me, were you doing this to get back at me for dumping your pathetic, closeted arse or were you just trolling for any young, vulnerable thing and decided to eat in?”  
  
“It wasn’t like that, Spike -”  
  
“Then what was it like? When I left, you two barely tolerated each other. How the hell did it go from tolerance to you fucking him?” Spike demands. He doesn’t sound nearly as angry as he’d like to sound. He sounds, to his own ears, as if he’s pleading with Angel.  
  
“We - there were circumstances - “  
  
“Fuck circumstances!” There’s the angry voice! About bloody time!  
  
“Keep it down, half-wit. You wanted some answers? Then shut the fuck up and listen.” Angel stops pacing to glare at Spike, who subsides, but only because he doesn’t want to wake Xander.  _Refuses_  to wake him till Angel’s being ambulanced to the hospital and out of their lives forever.  
  
“Like I said, there were circumstances - the man we were  _both_  in love with had just left us to play rockstar in Europe and we were both lonely. We were - a comfort to one another. But comfort turned into kissing and touching and - it just -  _happened_.”  
  
Spike looks away from the confusion, self-loathing and regret he sees in Angel’s eyes. It unnerves him.  
  
“It kept on  _happening_. For more than a year.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Jesus Christ, Liam, do you feel anything for him or are you just fucking him because he’s convenient?” If it’s the second answer, Spike’ll put a bullet in the bastard’s heart with his own gun.  
  
“I - I asked him to move back in with me yesterday afternoon.” Angel says quietly.  
  
“Bloody hell." Spike’s face and lips are completely numb again. "Did he say yes?”   
  
“He said he’d think about it. I had a feeling he’d eventually say yes until he showed up here a couple of hours ago.” The soft, rueful chuckle makes Spike feel vaguely guilty.  
  
“And now?” That hollow feeling in Spike’s chest? Must be because Spike’s heart has taken up permanent residence in his throat.   
  
“Now - I think any chance I had was gone the minute you got off the plane.”  
  
Spike opens his eyes and looks over at Angel, who’s leaning tiredly against the bookcase next to the entryway. Angel’s not looking at Spike, or at anything but the backs of his own eyelids. So help him, Spike feels sorry for the poof. The way he’d feel sorry for anyone who’d lost their shot at someone like Xander.  
  
And, at the same time, his inner Spike is dancing with glee and wondering if his aim is good enough to nail Angel’s gigantic skull with the lamp on the end-table.  
  
“You sodding pervert.”  
  
“Let he who is without the sin of wanting to fuck Xander Harris, cast the first stone.”  
  
“I’m his brother. I have every right to cast as many stones at you as I want. Literally. And don’t think I won’t.” Spike growls, leaning forward, half ready to launch himself at Angel, dodgy vision and spinning room bedamned.  
  
“I’ve paid for my sins, Spike. Believe me, I’ve paid.”   
  
“Yet strangely I’m feeling the urge to make you pay more. How about that?” The grin on Spike’s face feels wonderfully feral. A pained, guilty look drifts across Angel’s face then it turns back to unreadable stone.  
  
“There's only one thing that felt worse than hearing you moan his name when I fucked you. It wasn’t hearing him scream  _your_ name the first time I fucked  _him_. No, what felt worse was hearing him scream it  _every time I fucked him_  in the subsequent year, so, yeah. I’ve paid. I’m still paying.” Angel crosses his arms and opens his eyes. There was a time those tortured, wounded, soulful eyes would’ve melted Spike like ice on a griddle.  
  
That time is long past.  
  
“Fuck you and your suffering, mate. If you hadn’t been sniffing around Xan to begin with, you wouldn’t be feeling so bad about it now, would you? But I’ll make sure you never suffer that indignity again,  _Peaches_ , because you’re never coming near him again!”  
  
“Protect him from me, not that he needs it, if it makes you feel better. But who’s gonna protect him from you?”  
  
“Doesn’t need protection from me. I love him.”  
  
“You’re in love with him, there’s a difference.”  
  
“Don’t bother enlightening me on love, luv. Not half an hour ago, I got better advice on the same subject from a wiser and more perverted man than you’ll ever be, so stow the lecture.” Spike stands up carefully, the room spinning faster with every inch he manages to lever himself up off the couch.  
  
“I won’t deny that I’ve done my share of damage. I was wrong, Spike. I admit it. I’ve apologized to Xander for taking advantage of him.”  
  
“How touching.”  
  
“But I want him back here, with me.”  
  
“You’re still a jealous, controlling bastard.”   
  
“And you’re still a selfish prick, Spike. I guess neither of us has really changed.”  
  
Spike lurches toward the entryway with a sneer, meaning to go down the hall to the bedroom he and Angel used to share and collect his brother.  
  
“I want to try to turn what Xander and I have into something - real. And I have a chance, or I did, before you came back. Ask yourself, Spike - what can you offer him? A life of hiding what you are to each other from everyone who knows you? Is that what you want for Xander?”  
  
Spike stops and turns to look at Angel. The room seems to have stopped spinning and Spike feels a little bit steadier. “You don’t know one fucking thing about me or my boy or what’s best for him. So sod off.” Spike smiles calmly, and when Angel’s glower deepens from disapproval to outright confusion, Spike lunges forward, faking a right uppercut to Angel’s face. Angel blocks it easily, but misses the knee headed right for his crotch.  
  
Watching Angel turn sheet-white and crumple to the floor, eyes rolled up to the whites, is the second most rewarding thing he’s ever seen. Shaking his fist and dully aching knee out carefully, Spike leans over his prostrate ex and says:  
  
“We’ll work it out. No matter what else, I love him. He loves me. We’ll figure things out just fine, thanks, without your interference, so stay. Out of it. You get me?”  
  
The only answer Spike receives is a strange, high-pitched keening noise as Angel tries to focus his eyes and sit up. Taking that as a  _yes_ , with a cheerful grin, Spike punches Angel in the face twice, quick and hard.  
  
Leaving his unconscious ex in a loose-limbed and twitching sprawl on the livingroom floor, Spike makes his way to the master bedroom.  
  


*

  
  
Xander’s asleep, his face soft and vaguely unhappy in the soft, yellow lamplight.   
  
The eyeliner is all in sooty tracks down his face, making him look like a dirty little boy. Not for the first time, Spike wishes they’d grown up together. Wishes he’d known he had a brother while they were both still young and innocent.  
  
Wishes any of a million things that have nothing to do with the present.  
  
 _It’s time and past to accept that those things will never happen and move on, look to my future.  
  
From where I’m standing, my future looks pretty damn spectacular._  
  
Spike goes to kneel at Xander’s side, meaning to gently kiss his boy awake, and get them both home, where a shower and bed await. But after five minutes of staring, Spike admits the likelihood of him disturbing Xander when he’s sleeping so peacefully is as small as the likelihood of the two of them making it home unmugged and unkilled.  
  
“Luv. My love,” Spike whispers, leaning in to kiss Xander’s forehead, just because he can. Then kisses Xander’s lips for much the same reason, brushing thick, dark hair away from an clear, unlined brow. Xander stirs a little, sighing in his sleep. Spike hopes whatever he’s dreaming is good and happy. It’s the least his boy deserves.  
  
“I’m tired of fighting, luv. Tired of feeling bad for loving you the way I do. I don’t want to waste even the smallest bit of my life pushing you away when I could be spending it loving you with everything that I am.”  
  
Spike could never say such a poncy thing while Xander was awake, never utter aloud such foolishness when there was a witness.  
  
Hardly any surprise that he’d been a rotten poet the few times he’d tried his hand at it.  
  
“Can’t very well wake you up just to drag you out into the night and get us both murdered, can I?” Spike asks softly, leaning in to steal a few more kisses. Bloody addictive, they are. “Guess we’ll have to stay here, then. I’ll just have to make sure we remain uninterrupted.”  
  
Spike gets up and closes and locks the door. He looks around for something to brace it - can’t be too careful - and his gaze settles on the chair, dismissing it a second later in favor of the bureau.   
  
Knocking all of Angel’s crap off the top of it, Spike maneuvers the thing in front of the door. When he’s satisfied the door can’t be opened even if Angel did have another key to it out there, he takes off his shirt and Docs, leaving them on the floor near the bureau. He approaches the bed slowly, reverently, half-convinced he’s really asleep, or passed out, somewhere between  _The Cock_  and Angel’s apartment.  
  
He pulls back the down comforter - originally an apartment warming gift from Ethan, one Spike will be taking with him when he leaves, this time - and slides between crisp cool sheets until he’s pressed against Xander’s back. Xander immediately snuggles back into him, warm and smelling like  _Xander_. Not even a hint of Angel or Adam.  
  
“If I’m dreaming, fight the urge and don’t wake me up,” Spike mumbles to whomever is in charge of these things. “You just better not wake me up.”  
  
He settles in with a sigh of his own and drapes an arm over Xander.  
  
Watches his boy sleep for half an hour before his eyelids grow ridiculously heavy and the room starts to spin once more.  
  
Spike finally gives up the ghost, tucking his face into the warm groove of Xander’s neck and the pillow he’s sleeping on.  
  
“Didn’t wanna wake up, but I didn’t wanna fall asleep, either, you wanker. . . .”  
  
Spike is asleep before he can finish the sentence.  
  


*

  
  
Spike’s snores have barely evened out when a slow, satisfied smile curves Xander’s mouth and one of his hands links with Spike’s, gently squeezing it.  
  



	9. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thousand words six years pre-brother!kink. Implied William/Drusilla and Rupert/Ethan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All human AU. Six years before the events of The Family-verse.

“Son?”  
  
She’d been his everything. His bright, shining goddess. The first time he saw her, he’d known she was for him. The only woman he’d ever love. In her he’d seen the possibility of the normalcy and stability he’d never had.  
  
What rot that’d been. Utter fantasy on his part. If life has taught him anything, it’s: normalcy and stability aren’t his for the asking. His shining goddess had feet of clay -  
  
A soft knock drags him out of his memories, makes him sit up groggily. The hand holding the bottle aches, despite his numbness.   
  
Perhaps he was the one with a faulty foundation. Perhaps she hadn’t realized how flawed he was till faced with eternity by his side. If ever a woman deserved perfection, it was her. Drusilla Travers. . . lovely in her white satin wedding gown, her sable curls tumbled over her shoulders, eyes wide and terrified as she turned away, fleeing the altar - fleeing  _him_  like a startled gazelle. . . .  
  
“Please, son. . . .”  
  
His memories of her are so cluttered, so close. Closer than the bed he lays upon or the ceiling he’s stared up at for - however long he’s been in here.  
  
When there’s no answer, another, louder knock is issued. William starts laughing because his father’s distress is amusing.   
  
He keeps laughing because he’s going mad.  
  
He stops laughing because the door might open if he doesn’t.  
  
“I’m fine, dad!”   
  
“You haven’t come out of your room in three days, I’d hardly call that fine, William. . . we’re very concerned about you.”  
  
William clenches his hand around the bottle and lays back down. The door to his room isn’t locked but even so, his father wouldn’t dream of barging in where he wasn’t invited. Sometimes - he’d never admit to this to anyone, least of all himself - William really wishes he would. Just come in and say  _buck up, son, take it like a man_. . .   
  
Or whatever is said to moping, self-pitying sons who are a continuing source of disappointment to their fathers.  
  
“At least come down for breakfast after I leave for the shop. Mrs. McArdle’s gone to run a few errands and -”  
  
“‘M not hungry. I just need some time to clear my head.”   
  
“No one thinks clearly while letting himself waste away.”  
  
Sometimes she’d wake up in the night screaming, her dreams full of blood and death, full of ash and earth and -  
  
“Don’t worry, I shan’t be wasting away.” It’s a struggle to keep the laughter out of his voice. It’s sounds too much like tears, this laughter, and the sound of it scares him. He thinks if he laughs long enough, his father may just open the door for the first time in fourteen years.  
  
“The screams were the worst parts of the dreams.” William tells his father. “She couldn’t distinguish  _their_  screams from her own, distinguish sleeping from waking. And some poor person was  _always_  being hurt and mutilated. Made to endure such suffering. A few of the dreams were of bloody orgies. . . .”  
  
“Dear God, William -” he knows that sound. It’s defeat. He’s heard it in his voice when well-meaning friends call to ask after him. He hears it in his father’s voice, now, and knows the door will not open. Not today, not ever.  
  
“I love you very much, dad, but I need to be alone for a bit.” Except for his too-brief time with Drusilla, it seems like he’s always been alone.   
  
His Dru. . . dreaming nightly of abominations a good Catholic girl couldn’t possibly have knowledge of. But his good Catholic girl _had_  known and seen and - this, William had realized almost from the first - enjoyed. It was knowledge of that enjoyment that fueled her screams, more than the horror and blood. . . .  
  
“William, for God’s sake, at least -” more pleading that William doesn’t care to hear, so he doesn’t.  
  
The medication had dulled her awful dreams, made her lethargic and dozy. She lived a placid half-life in a placid world that she was content to share with William - till she’d looked into his eyes that last time.   
  
On their wedding day that slightly glazed, perpetually-medicated look left her eyes and she was  _sharp_  again. Inutterably beautiful. And cruel, for in that moment she had looked into her future with him and found it wanting.   
  
Found  _him_  wanting.  
  
“One more day to myself, dad, that’s all I ask.”  
  
The silence that follows is heavy with both their thoughts. . . .  
  
Her eyes had widened in horror when she turned to him, vows of faith and forever dying on her perfect lips. William wonders what she had seen when she finally saw  _him_. Wonders if he’ll ever know. Wonders if it matters beyond the fact that what she saw was so unpalatable, so repulsive, so -  
  
“There’s a plate in the oven for you, if you’re hungry, later.”  
  
William rolls his eyes ceiling-ward and closes them. If his father won’t open the door, it can stay shut till doomsday.  
  
In the meantime, the backs of his eyes are velvet-dark, like Drusilla’s eyes.  
  
“Thanks, dad. And thank Mrs. McArdle, for me.”  
  
“Alright, just - feel better.”  
  
And that’s that. There’ll be no barging in, because Rupert simply isn’t that kind of father. He never has been, not even when that was exactly what William needed.  
  
As the quiet footsteps fade, William opens his hand slowly, so it doesn’t cramp, and the bottle rolls out. Wherever his bright goddess is, she’s probably having a hard time sleeping. If only because she’d left her latest prescription behind in the pocket of the coat she’d not even stopped to take.  
  
“Forgetful pet,” he tsks at no-one and nothing in particular. An empty gesture in a life  _full_  of empty gestures that don’t make anything different or better.   
  
Thankfully, this empty gesture will be the last. It might even make things better. . . .  
  
William curls up into fetal position.  _Her_  bright, dark gaze follows him into sleep. 


	10. Father, Son, Prodigal, and Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to "Lost."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All human AU. Six years before the events of the Family-verse.

_The screams were the worst. . . couldn’t distinguish their screams from her own, distinguish sleeping from waking. . . ._  
  
“Well?”  
  
I look up from organizing my papers. Ethan is standing in entryway. I would say the look on his face is worried if I didn’t want to spend the next fortnight sleeping in the den.  
  
 _. . . made to endure such suffering. A few of the dreams were of bloody orgies. . . ._  
  
Finally I just shove papers into my briefcase at random. “He’s still in there. Still - brooding.”  
  
“He obviously gets it from your side of the family, love.” Normally Ethan’s smiles are full of mischief and - whatever it is that makes him so bloody irresistible, but this morning, the smile doesn’t even make it halfway up his face. That Ethan is so worried sends a chill up my spine.   
  
 _I’m fine. . . one more day to myself, dad, that’s all I ask. . . ._  
  
I close my briefcase and look up at Ethan.  
  
“We didn’t raise William to be this self-indulgent, this - disregarding of other people’s feelings?”  
  
Or did we? If only through our own example. . . .  
  
“Rupert.”  
  
I don’t realize I’ve been wool-gathering until Ethan says my name softly. He comes around my desk and I automatically push my chair back. He’s forever interrupting me while I work, sitting on my lap and - distracting me. But this time, he just stares at me as if waiting for me to do something.   
  
“What?”   
  
“You’re not just going to leave him in there?” He sounds incredulous.  
  
 _I’m fine, dad. . . one more day to myself, dad, that’s all I ask._  
  
“He’s asked for some time to himself, so I think it’s best -”  
  
“Ripper!” Ethan’s eyes are cold and - disappointed, somehow. He almost never calls me  _Ripper_ , anymore.   
  
“He’s had time to himself for fourteen years. . . just go in there and -  _beat_  some bloody sense into him, if you have to, but  _go in there_! Be his  _father_!”  
  
And then, he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall, up the front staircase.  
  
I must say, I’m rather shocked. He’s never this - blunt. At least not about William. It’s been my impression that Ethan felt he had no _right_  to be concerned for William. Which isn’t true, but I never took the time to  _convince_  him of that. Never took the time to do a lot of things. . . .  
  
 _I’m fine, dad. . . one more day to myself, dad, that’s all I ask. . . ._  
  
“You never lock your door,” I mutter, standing up. My feet are directing me out of the library with no say-so from my brain. “No one ever tries to get in, except Mrs. McArdle, but not in quite a few years. . . oh, William -”  
  
 _I love you very much, dad. . . ._  
  
His voice follows me down the front hall, up the staircase.   
  
 _I need to be alone for a bit. . . ._  
  
“But you’ve already been alone for far too long.”   
  
I’m at his door.  
  
I take a breath and reach for the knob, hoping I haven't been shut out.  
  


*

**Son**  
  
  
She never deserved you, that Travers woman.  
  
Honestly?  _I_  never did have much use for you. But even as a child there was something about you - a  _light_  that shone out rather strongly, obscured as it was by snark and misery. You were your mother’s child; in so many respects, but the light I saw in you was all your own.  
  
It shines so fitfully, now.  
  
Have you any idea how  _angry_  that makes me? You let that psychotic little strumpet you were so very enamored of almost snuff it out.  
  
My poor William. . . sad, lost boy. . . .  
  
You need someone to be strong for. She was as good a  _someone_  as any, I suppose - just not good enough for you.  
  
How it pains me to see you unconscious in a hospital bed. . . a pale, miserable boy trapped in pale, miserable dreams. . . .  
  
You could just as easily be dead, if -  
  
\- if it were up to me, you would be back where you belong: at home, complaining endlessly about anything and  _everything_.  
  
Would it be - sentimental of me to imagine you get that from my side of the family? Probably. But sentimentality seems to be my watchword, these past few days. I miss your smile, your presence at home. I even miss being called wicked-stepmum -  
  
“Love. . .”  
  
It  _hurts_  to see you so -  _diminished_ , but I can’t seem to look away, for fear you’ll  _slip_  away -  
  
“Love, go home, get some rest.”  
  
When I can, I finally look up into his worried face with an ever-ready smile. “I’ll be fine, here. You’re the one who needs to rest.”  
  
His smile is sad and lost. Ah, William. . . you’ve made us  _all_  feel so sad and lost, haven’t you?  
  
“You’ve already done so much -” he sighs wearily. I stand up and pull him into my arms. I don’t know which of us is being strong for the other. I wonder if we can be strong enough for  _you_.  
  
“Dearest, he’s your son. Even if he wasn’t -”  
  
“Ours.”  
  
“What?”  
  
He leans back and looks into my eyes. “ _Our_  son.”  
  
Then he’s holding me again, so tight I can barely breathe. Yes, it must be lack of oxygen that makes me want to grin like a fool.  
  
“Darling Ripper, must you be  _so_  sentimental?” I whisper. Yet I think I would give anything hear your voice, again. I find I miss  _that_ most of all.   
  


*

**Prodigal**  
  
  
It was only a matter of time, child.  
  
Love of others eventually comes between a disciple and his God. This, I understand.   
  
In that way, I am more forgiving than the desert God of your infancy.  
  
Others before have done as  _you_  have done, cast me out of their hearts, out of their  _flesh_ , only to come crawling home when that which they have loved withers.  
  
In the end, it is  _love_  which brings you back to me, brings you home.  
  
Your sacrifice is acceptable.   
  
I will save your precious son, your  _William_.   
  
Favored acolyte. . . beloved child. . . .   
  
 _Welcome home._  
  


*

**Mother**  
  
  
Her tired, dark eyes open. She smiles when sees him. Her lips are chapped, greyer than the rest of her face and chapped, but that smile is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.  
  
“Hey,” she husks, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.  
  
He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to alarm her, make her worry, ‘cause she’s his mom, but he can’t hold it in anymore, can’t stop tears that scald the backs of his eyes and then his cheeks and oh, God, please don’t take her,  _please?_  Take anyone in the world, but not her, not my  _mom_?  
  
“My poor baby. . . .” she croaks. Croaks and husks are all that’s left of her voice. “My sad, lost boy.”  
  
“Mommy.” He wants to hug her, but she looks so small, so weak, so -  _breakable_.  
  
As if she senses that, she opens her thin arms and gestures him closer. “Come ‘ere.”  
  
“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmurs into her neck, already curled up in her arms, laying next to her. She smells like illness and rubbing alcohol. Hospital smells. He knows these smells very well.  
  
“Nah. . . you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Her hugs are as strong as ever. Stronger, even.   
  
“Hush, baby, it’s alright.” He doesn’t even realize he’s sobbing until she says that. The same words she’d said to him at Aunt Jenny’s funeral five years ago, then again, two years later, when she was first diagnosed.  
  
He knows she’s lying to comfort him, though he suspects she’s comforting herself, as well.  
  
“My sweet boy. . . I haven’t been a good mother to you, I know. Always holding you too close or pushing you away. . . when I get better again, things’ll be different. We’ll leave Oxnard, leave Tony. . .  _adios_! And I’ll take you to England. You have family there, you know?”  
  
He nods once, afraid that if he opens his traitor mouth, all that’ll come out is sobbing.  
  
“When I’m better. . . we’ll go there.” Her voice sounds slurred and dreamy. Yay! for the morphine drip because he hates this part.   
  
“And. . . we’ll find your father.. . we’ll live in his big house in London, with your older brother.”  
  
“William,” he whispers, cursing the tumor that’s liquefying her brain. Almost worse than the fact of her death - and he’s twelve, old enough to know what dying looks like - is the  _damn-fucking-tumor_  that makes her dream up stupid things like his imaginary English father and brother, and the happy life waiting for them in London.  
  
Yeah. . . he’s old enough, now. He knows that the only life left for her is the afterlife. And when she’s gone -  
  
\- when she’s gone, it’ll just be him and his  _real_  father.  
  
“Momma?”  
  
“Xan. . . .” Her arms around him are slackening. She’ll be asleep, soon.  
  
“Tell me more about England and William and - dad.”  
  
“Big house. . . in London. . . and. . . and -”  
  
“We’ll live there with my him and my big b-brother?”  
  
“Yeah. . . you'll go to - a fancy school. . . you’re so smart. . . .”  
  



	11. The First Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approx. 1000 words. Takes place a few months after the events of the Family-verse. Angel/Doyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All-human AU.

“Well, you’re a sad sight for sore eyes.” A lilting, amused Irish accent drags Angel kicking and screaming out of his  _Joe Dante_  novel.  
  
Angel looks up. Grinning down at him is a pale, dark-haired, rakish-looking man of less-than-average height and less-than-average sartorial acumen. Behind wire-rim glasses, quizzical, green eyes regard Angel steadily, unnervingly.  
  
“If I make your eyes sad, feel free to not look at me.” Already, Angel’s scanning the park out of the corner of his eyes. Late afternoon in January doesn’t encourage the masses to enjoy the outdoors. Angel’s just always liked the cold.   
  
There’s plenty of other benches to move to, if necessary.  
  
“Do ya play?”  
  
For a moment Angel wonders if he’s going to have to scare off yet another crazy - why do they always choose  _him_  to harass, of all the people in the goddamn city - then he remembers where he’s sitting.   
  
“Oh. Um, no. Not really.”  
  
“Well? Which is it?  _No_  or  _not really_? ‘Cause those’re two different things, mate.” Off come the glasses and twinkling eyes outshine the white smile.  
  
“It’s  _get the fuck away from me, I’m not in a mood to be bothered_. Mate.” Angel glares, which is normally enough to scare off all but the most foolish - like Spike - or the most concerned - no one. But the nutball actually sits down on the cold, stone bench and regards the cold, stone chess table he’s just parked himself at. It's as if Angel hadn’t spoken at all.  
  
“Myself? I’m only an indifferent player, much as I love the game. Takes a patience I just don’t have to be  _really_  good at it. Strategies and the like.” The grin cranks up yet another notch, if that’s even possible, and Angel wonders if he’s being cruised.   
  
“I’m Francis. You would be -?” Yep, he’s being cruised.  
  
“Completely not your type, Irish, so shove off.” Angel glares into the distance, hoping he doesn’t have to flash the badge to scare the guy away.  
  
“Got a mighty high opinion off yourself, do ya?” This  _Francis_  snorts as if truly offended, though the green eyes are dancing with laughter. “Just so happens, that I was  _trying_  to interest you in a game of chess to pass the time -” from precisely  _nowhere_ , Francis produces a giant Ziploc baggy filled with old, wooden chess pieces.   
  
“Shit -” Angel suddenly feels stupid and painfully embarrassed. But mostly stupid.   
  
“ _Just so happens_  that I’m not the least bit attracted to ya, man. Not beyond your skills as a chess player, anyway.” Francis is grinning again. He opens the bag, dumping the pieces on the table.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry, I just - my gaydar - I mean  _radar_ ’s been acting screwy lately and I just thought -” Xander’s tendency to babble must be catching.   
  
And  _that_  thought doesn’t bring any pangs of loss with it, nossiree.  
  
“Yeah, I know what you  _thought_ , mate.” Francis’s eyes roll in exasperation. “You normally play white or black?”  
  
“What? Black, I guess - look, I’m sorry, I was rude and presumptuous, I’ll just - let you set up your game. Have a nice day.” Angel gets up, paperback in hand, ready to beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of his apartment. The place that’d seen him lose two men he’d loved.  
  
 _Home, sweet home. . . ._  
  
“Hey, mac?”  
  
Angel stops, already a yard away from the chessboard/table. He’s also a yard closer to the empty apartment he’s starting to dread.  
  
“If you’re  _really_  sorry, you’ll play me a game, yeah? As you may have noticed, a nippy day like this keeps away the potential Bobby Fishers.”  
  
Angel looks back at Francis, who’s busily setting up the stone board.  
  
“Uh, no thanks, I have things -”  
  
“Come on, it’s Sunday afternoon, too late for church - leastaways if you’re Catholic, it is.” A shrewd glance that doesn’t at all take away from the madcap grin. “And I’m bettin’ y’are.”  
  
Angel’s nodding before he realizes he means to do so. Then he shakes his head as if just waking up.  
  
“I told you, I’m not a good chess player.” Which doesn’t at all explain why his chilly legs and numb feet are carrying him back to Francis and the chessboard.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Ang - Liam.”   
  
“Ah,  _Irish_  Catholic. . . well-matched and well-met, would ya say?” Those laughing eyes make Angel feel confused and slightly disoriented, as if he’s just woken up from a strange dream. He blinks, and Francis is sitting down as if he’d been there for hours, studying the board intently. Angel sits, as well.  
  
“Um -”  
  
“Look, Liam, this isn’t exactly a tournament of champions, so pull up a rock, yeah? First move’s yours.” Francis has somehow managed to set up all the pieces in the short seconds of conversation they’ve had. Only -  
  
“I, uh, said I usually play black.”   
  
“Did ya, now? Well, it’s good to try on a different point of view, every once in awhile. Enables us to think in new patterns. The first move is yours, Liam,” Francis says softly, then glances up at Angel again, his eyes seeming to look into and through him for a moment before studying the board again. “Take as long as you like.”  
  
After a prolonged gaze at the faded board and even more faded pieces, Angel picks up the white knight and makes the first move.


	12. A Fairy Tale . . . Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happily Ever After . . . enter the Wicked Stepmum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All-human AU; a prequel to the Family-verse

Once upon a time, there was a boy named William. He lived all the way across the sea, on a magical and rainy island named England.  
  
William’s parents loved him very, very much--even more than they loved each other, it could be argued. But their family was a happy family, their life a happy life . . . a tad dull, but happy, for all that.   
  
A few days before William’s seventh birthday, the low and ominous doorbell rings once, echoing throughout the house. William, hoping his mother has returned from her appointment with Dr. Travers early--and with arms so full of presents she can’t use her key--runs for the door before his father can stir himself from the library.   
  
William stumbles on the carpet in the parlor and keeps going--slides the whole eight meters down the perfectly waxed front hall floor--to collide solidly, but not painfully with the front door. He bounces back and yanks the front door open, not even slightly out of breath.   
  
“Mum, mum, you’re ho--! Oh.” A tall, pale man with cold, dark eyes regards William from a height of at least ten storeys. “Hello. Calendar-Giles residence. How may I help you, sir?”  
  
The stranger gives William a wintry smile before stepping across the threshold uninvited, as if he is entering his  _own_  home.  
  
“You must be William.” The man looks around the hall with a critical frown.  
  
Though not afraid of this scarecrow of pales and darks, William  _is_  wary of him, doesn’t like him. He doesn't yet know the word _prescient_ , but if he did, he would follow his instinct and do his best to put this man out of his home. But he doesn’t, so he can’t. All he can do is be polite. “Yes, sir. How may I help you?”   
  
“You may help me by letting Ripper know that Ethan Rayne is here.”  
  
Relief spreads through William like warmth. “There’s no Ripper here, sir. You have the wrong residence.”  
  
“Tell your father Ethan Rayne is here, child.” The man turns that critical frown on William for a moment, then turns to examine a painting, utterly dismissing him.  
  
Now, William is a child doted on by every adult who’s ever met him, thus is unused and disinclined to being dismissed. His immediate instinct is to kick this tall stranger right in the shin. In fact, he’s drawn his skinny little leg back to do just that when the stranger chuckles darkly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. I kick back. Now, do as you’re told and let Rupert Giles know that I’m here.”  
  
Dismissed again and confronting the awful possibility that his father might actually  _know_  this alarming person--and that said alarming person might indeed kick back--William is off for the library. Another glide down the main hall, another stumble-slide that straightens out the carpet and he’s being caught and swung into the air by his father. After a kiss on the cheek and a few seconds of airplane, both father and son are laughing.  
  
“Where are you off to in such a hurry, William? Who was at the door? Did your mother come home with--packages?” Rupert’s kind, near-sighted eyes say he knows exactly why his son had rushed to the door. William starts to smile, then he remembers who’s waiting in the hall.  
  
“There’s a man here to see you, Dad.”  
  
“Really? Who?”  
  
“Ethan Rains. He said he was looking for Ripper and then he said he was looking for  _you_  and then he said if I didn’t fetch you, he’d kick me.  _Hard_ ,” William adds in a solemn whisper.  
  
The look of surprise, dismay, and yearning on his father’s face is like nothing William has ever seen there before, and it frightens him. “Dad?”  
  
“Rayne, son. Not Rains. Ethan Rayne,” Rupert says absently, putting his son down. “My God--he can’t mean to--why now?” Rupert’s suddenly unhappy eyes fall on William. “William, go to the kitchen, ask Mrs. McArdle to make you a snack and I want you to stay there until I come to get you, alright?”  
  
“But--”  
  
“There’s a good boy, Will.” A distracted pat to William’s head and Rupert is hurrying out of the parlor and down the hall.  
  
Worried--another thing William is unused to being--he turns to obey his father, not even a little interested in snacks or Mrs. McArdle, but determined to do as he’s told.  
  
But then the voice in his head--the one his mum calls his ‘mischief-voice’--nudges him back in the direction of the front hall. After all, that Rains character has a rather ill-favored look, unpredictable and dangerous; William’s kind, bookish father almost certainly isn’t prepared to handle such a person. It only stands to reason that Rupert needs his loyal and brave boy at his side to deal with any menace this stranger thinks to present.  
  
(And at any rate, the mischief-voice rarely has to try hard to get William into trouble.)  
  
William creeps back through the parlor and the front hall and peers ‘round the corner, into the small anteroom.  
  
His father and that dreadful Rains fellow are merely standing a few feet apart, silently staring at each other. Going by the tense line of Rupert’s back, he must expect some sort of trouble from this man. From the unwholesome smile on Rains’s face,  _trouble_ isn’t safely out of the realm of possibility, as William’s mother might say.  
  
Eventually, it’s Rains who breaks the silence.  
  
“Hello, Ripper.”  
  
Dad  _is Ripper_?   
  
“Hello, Ethan. It’s been so long. . . .”  
  
“ _Too_  long, old man.” The sly, sickle of a smile widens and Rains is transformed from a scarecrow, to a malignant wizard, like right out of  _The Fellowship of the Ring_.   
  
William knows that this time, he’d been right to disobey.  
  
“I imagine you’ve come to put an end to me, then.” Rupert’s voice is calm, resigned. “I ask only, as someone you once claimed to be fond of, that you spare my family.”  
  
“Darling Ripper . . . so noble, even now.” Rains’s mask of cold contempt slips for a moment, revealing adoration and desperation so naked and intense it repulses William. Then the mask is back in place. “I’m not here to kill you  _or_  your little family.”  
  
“Well. How--generous of you. Then I suppose you have a night of torture planned, or something along those lines?” Despite his words, Rupert’s voice contains a small amount of dry humor. Rains’s sickle-smile improbably widens.  
  
“For a man who fears malice in the form of his old friends, you’ve been remarkably complacent so far. Your lack of vigilance is really rather disturbing--letting junior answer the door when I could’ve been  _anyone_  at all?” Rains tsks.  
  
Rupert’s voice is still as dry he takes off his glasses; a clean handkerchief is ready to polish the lenses. “Is that why you’ve come here, Ethan? To criticize my parenting?”  
  
“No, Ripper, I -” Rains takes a deep, shaky breath, the haughty mask slipping away completely; he takes a step forward. Then another. Then another. Then another. After the briefest of hesitations, Rupert’s arms slide slowly around him, pull him even closer.   
  
Rains lets out a breath and a smile lights up his dark eyes, warms them. “I came here for this. For  _you_. I love you, Ripper. I always have. And try as I might I can’t seem to  _stop_  loving you. I let you chase me off because I thought--well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, but I won’t let you do it again.”  
  
“Ethan.” Rupert brings one hand up to touch Rains’s face gently, as if he fears it will break, or disappear. When Rains leans into the touch, Rupert jerks away, as if he’s been burned. “It’s too late. I have a family. Responsibilities. I--I’m not  _Ripper_ , anymore,” he says softly. His arms fall away from Rains and he takes a step back.  
  
“You don’t have to be. Ripper or Rupert, I love you to distraction. I gave up summoning Eyghon because it was what you wanted and I loved you.” Rains takes a small step toward Rupert. “And now, I’ve turned away from my  _God_  because I want to be someone you can love in return. Ripper,  _please_.”  
  
“ _You_  gave up worshiping Chaos?” This is said in same tone William occasionally hears when he announces he’s completed his homework or washed behind his ears.  
  
There’s a flash of frustration and hurt in Rains’s eyes before he looks down wearily. “Ripper--I’d give up oxygen if it meant having you. How many times and in how many different ways must I say it before you’ll believe me?”  
  
“How long?” Rupert demands.  
  
Rain’s sighs and it makes him look older, tired, but he meets Rupert’s eyes squarely. “One year. I thought if I could give chaos up for one whole year, giving it up for the rest of my life might not be such a hardship. I also thought it would prove my love and devotion. What I want from you is more than just your body and more than just a whim.”  
  
“What is it exactly that you want?” Rupert asks, as if he’s not quite certain he wants to hear the answer. William, however,  _is_  quite certain he doesn’t want to hear the answer; yet he can’t seem to turn away.  
  
“Your heart and soul,” Rains says without blinking.  
  
“Oh. Is that all, then?”   
  
“It’s asking a lot only if you no longer have them to give. I happen to know you  _do_.” Rains's smile is almost boyish.  
  
William can hear his father swallow from down the hall, doesn’t miss the way the slight, ever-present slump to father’s shoulders straightens.  
  
“Once upon a time, you cared nothing for either of those things.”  
  
“Once upon a time, I was a foolish prat.”  
  
Rupert turns his face away and takes off his glasses again. Instead of getting polished, they go in the right front pocket of Rupert's pants. “My life is--complicated, Ethan, I can’t just--”  
  
“We can deal with  _complications_ , Ripper, the way we used to.  _Together_. Together, we’re a force to be reckoned with.”   
  
“Things change, Ethan. Considering your-- former religious convictions, you should understand that more than anyone.” Rupert’s voice is so low, William strains to hear it. . . .  
  
. . . and so sad, it breaks his heart to.  
  
“Things  _do_  change, old man, but not us. Not what we feel for each other.” Rains’s dark eyes burn with something William can’t name, but has only ever seen in his mother’s eyes. And only ever when she looks at his father. “You don’t love her. You never have--not the way you love me.”  
  
Rupert’s laugh is small, bitter. “Ethan, I’ve never loved  _anyone_  the way I love you. Be that as it may, I will not destroy my family--not even for you.”  
  
“Yes, your little family--a wife who’s a pawn of the Council that nearly stripped us of our powers and that odd, changeling of a child. Your . . . family.” The clinical disdain in Rains’s voice makes William start to hate him, just a little. “You  _would_  grow attached to that boy, Ripper. Your greatest flaw is your bloody sentimentality.”  
  
“As I recall, my bloody sentimentality saved your life and your powers, Ethan,” Rupert says very quietly.   
  
“Neither of which are worth having without you.”  
  
Shocked to silence, Rupert says nothing and Rains goes on softly, implacably. “I want you, I need you. I love you.”  
  
“You have no right to say that, Ethan. Not now.”  
  
“ _Now_  is all we have, Ripper. You can’t continue to hide in this sham of a life. You can’t lie to yourself forever.”  
  
“William--”  
  
“-- _is yours_ , not Jennifer’s despite what she likes to pretend.”  
  
William gasps so loud, he’s sure one or both of them can hear him. But when they both go on speaking--at least William  _thinks_ they’ve gone on speaking, he can’t actually hear what they’re saying over the pounding of his heart--he ducks back around the corner, stunned.  
  
Not  _Jennifer’s? Not_ Jennifer’s _? What did he mean?_  His heart seems to plead on every beat.  _If not hers, then_ whose?  
  
William is entirely unaware that tears as hot as his face is cold are rolling down his cheeks.  
  
 _No! He’s a liar, that’s what he is! An awful old liar, making up stories to trick Dad into letting him in. But it won’t work. It_ can’t _work. Mum--  
  
not hers . . . oh, not hers. . . .  
  
\--will be home soon and she’ll put him out and we’ll never see him again and everything will be alright and--and--_  
  
When the rabbity-scared thud of William’s heart slows and quiets enough for him to hear what his father and Rains are saying again, he takes another peek ‘round the corner.  
  
“--is a good companion, and more importantly a wonderful mother. I can’t imagine depriving William of her, or vice versa,” Rupert is saying very firmly.  
  
 _But he didn’t say that he loves her,_  William realizes with cold dread. He suspects that little omission didn’t get by Rains, either.  
  
Rains lays his head on Rupert’s shoulder and laughs softly. “I adore you, Ripper,” comes his muffled, amused murmur. “And I’ll take you any way I can get you. If it means being your--bit of fluff on the side, till you realize what you really need and want, I can accept that. For now.”  
  
“No!” Rupert recoils, pushing Rains away. “I couldn’t possibly!”  
  
“Oh, couldn’t you?” When Rains pulls Rupert’s arms back around his waist, Rupert doesn’t stop him and William, for the life of him, cannot understand  _why_.  
  
“I most definitely  _wouldn’t_! It would be beneath us both to carry on in such a disgraceful fashion! No!”  
  
“I won’t  _take_  no for an answer, old man. Not when I know what you really want.” Rains leans back a little to look into Rupert’s eyes. “Tell me, Ripper. Tell me what you really want.”   
  
“You,” Rupert says gravelly, without hesitation. “Always you, from the moment I first laid eyes on you. But I  _will not_  entertain the notion of--of sneaking around with you as if you’re some sort of shameful secret to be kept. And even if I could end my marriage without hurting William, he will  _always_  come first in my consideration and in my heart--even ahead of you. Could you live with being second, Ethan?”   
  
A silence that’s several minutes long.   
  
“I think,” Rains says finally, slowly, as if swallowing a very bitter pill, indeed. “That you’re mistaking me with someone who has a little pride left, Ripper, and you really shouldn’t. If it means having you, I can live with  _anything_ , even being second in your heart.   
  
“You would never have accepted that, seven years ago,” is Rupert’s response, soft and breathless. Rains’s sickle-smile returns, but the dark eyes above it are still anxious and hopeful.   
  
“Seven years ago, darling Ripper, I hadn’t spent seven years apart from you.” Rains’s laugh is mirthless, self-mocking; it put William in the mind of sobs, rather than smiles. "It’s amazing how well loneliness and utter despair can sort one’s priorities.”  
  
Rupert sighs and holds Rains tighter and kisses his forehead gently, the way he kisses William’s when he’s had a nightmare. “I didn’t know.”  
  
“I didn't want you to know."  
  
Even without seeing Rupert’s face, William can recognize when his father is thinking quickly--furiously about something. When he’s . . .  _considering.  
  
There's nothing to think about, Dad, just send him away! Can't you see he's no good?_  
  
“I’ve missed you,” Rupert finally whispers.  
  
“And I’ve missed  _you_ , too, Rip--Rupert.” Rains’s smile has turned boyish again, almost  _shy_. He leans in until his forehead touches Rupert’s. “I’ve missed--”  
  
William doesn’t find out what else Rains had missed. Rupert leans in and kisses him long, hard, and possessively.  _Passionately_.  
  
Shocked, William stands up and steps out into the hallway. And why shouldn’t he be shocked? William knows his father is only supposed to kiss his mother like that. He also knows his father never has.   
  
This dreadful Rains fellow--aside from being an awful liar--is some sort of Adulterer, like in one of Mrs. McArdle’s afternoon programs. And Rupert--  
  
William watches his father and Rains with growing dismay; doesn’t allow himself to think of what Rupert might be.  
  
Eventually, the intensity of their kiss lessens, turns into a long embrace with Rains’s chin resting on Rupert’s shoulder. They're swaying gently, as if they have no cares and all the time in the world.  
  
 _I hate you,_  William thinks helplessly, uncertain to which of them he’s thinking it.  
  
Immediately, Rains’s eyes flicker open to meet William’s. The sickle smile twitches in amusement and a voice--too strong, too deep, too  _old_  to be William's mischief voice--echoes a single word through William’s being.  
  
The word is:  _shoo_.  
  
Rains’s eyes close contentedly, without waiting to see if he’s being obeyed; William runs to the kitchen and Mrs. McArdle, wishing he’d gone straight there, when he’d been told.

 


	13. Each Day is Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten Valentine’s Days in Xander’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All human AU in The Family-verse, incest, character death.

**Thirteenth**  
  
“So. . . Sunnydale, hunh?”  
  
“Yeah.” Jesse watches Xander swaying absently in the tire swing. His eyes used to be so easy to read. Before his mom died, before Xander himself nearly died.   
  
Now, Jesse doesn’t know how to gauge his oldest friend at all. He feels compelled to add something, anything to make Xander’s eyes warm; he knows he’s destined to fail. Xander and his father look nothing alike, but they have the same cold, secretive eyes, now.  
  
“My mom, you know, she hates Oxnard. She only moved back here to be closer to my gramma, but -”  
  
“Your gramma died three years ago and it’s everybody out of the pool, I get it. She’s a good mom and she doesn’t want you to grow up in this shit-pit. Sunnydale is a pretty town. . . I remember it a little.” Xander's dark, stranger-eyes flicker.  
  
“And the highschool has, like, the highest teacher-student ratio of any public school on the west coast. Second in the nation, actually. Number one is some highschool in Cleveland. . . guess I should be glad we’re not moving  _there_. Midwest winters, man.” Jesse’s laugh sounds weak and lame.   
  
Jesse  _feels_  weak and lame.  
  
“You’re such a screech.”   
  
"Only 'cause you're such a scuzz."  
  
A laugh, but it isn’t Xander’s old laugh and so help him, Jesse’s glad he’s leaving, for a moment. Glad he doesn’t have to watch his best friend die by inches as his asshole father and this asshole town slowly kill that -  _Xanderyness_  that Jesse misses so much now -  
  
“You sound like I used to.” Xander’s scuffing his raggedy sneakers on a rock. “Grades, blah, blah. Perfect attendance, blah, blah. It’s all just bullshit, man. Life’s too short, you can’t waste it on shit like school.”  
  
 _If life’s so short, why are you letting this place win? Why are you letting it kill you? What the hell happened to you?_  
  
But Jesse can’t ask these questions. Can only offer guilt and discomfort as atonement for the betrayed look he should see in Xander’s eyes, but doesn’t.  
  
“Once we get settled, mom says I can visit on weekends, if I don’t let my grades drop or my homework suffer.”  
  
“Your mom’s nice. She loves you,” Xander says almost out of nowhere with the sad-lost smile that always makes Jesse’s mom call him “that poor, motherless boy”.  
  
“Yeah.” ‘Cause what else is there to say?  
  
“Think you’ll be coming back for, um, my birthday?” A little of the icy darkness in Xander’s eyes cracks and some emotion, desperate and young peeks out. “It’s on a Sunday, this year -”  
  
“Mom already said I could come back for your birthday.” Jesse grins when Xander smiles,  _really smiles_ , for the first time in nearly a year. “I wouldn’t miss it, bro. Xan-the-man turns the big one-four.”  
  
“Against all fucking odds.” A small, mirthless chuckle and the ice is back, though not as thick as before. Xander blinks at him curiously. “Be careful there, hunh? Sunnydale, I mean. I’ve heard some shit, remember some shit - that place gets  _weird_  after sundown.”  
  
“My mom says that’s just stories the natives make up to keep out the undesirables.”  
  
“Undesirables like us?” Xander’s laughing again. It’s harsh and unlovely and carries across the trailer park that Jesse won’t miss at all.  
  
“ _Spies_  like us.” The old joke falls flat.  
  
“You tell Parker, yet?”  
  
“Nah, but he won’t care. He’s stoned all the time, nothing bothers him.” Not-so-secretly, Jesse’s never liked Parker that much. And that was  _before_  the little puke nearly got his best friend killed.  
  
“That kid’s got a freaky-weird Xander-obsession, bro. Is it gonna get all  _Single White Female_  when I’m gone?”   
  
Xander rolls his eyes. “You’re such a 'wipe.”  
  
“Parker’s got a heart as big as all outdoors, my friend, and he wants to give it to you.” Despite his ribbing, Parker Abrams crushing on Xan makes Jesse's stomach churn.  
  
“You want your going-away-punches now, or later, screech?”   
  
The both of them are laughing again - at Parker’s expense - and it’s good. It feels good, it  _is_  good. Jesse’s suddenly sure of one thing: he and Xander are gonna be friends for the rest of their lives, even though he’s moving way-the-hell out to Sunnydale.   
  
 _Distance is a state of mind_ , his mother liked to say. At least she liked saying that since deciding to move them out of Oxnard.   
  
For the first time since she dropped the news on him, Jesse’s starting to believe her.  
  
  
 **Fourteenth**  
  
“Wanna make out?”  
  
Xander opens bleary eyes and squints through the haze of his room.  
  
“Dude. . . you are so  _gay_ ,” Xander giggles, exhaling thick, grey smoke in Parker’s pretty, stoned face.   
  
“Yeah, well, I’m not the only one, fag-zilla. You let me stroke you off twice last week.”  
  
“Yeah, and both times I was so out of it, I’d have let  _Mrs. Breen_  stroke me off. . . not till math class was over, though.”  
  
“You’re a man of principle.” Parker wanders over to Xander’s door and locks it. Xander’d put the lock in, himself, not three weeks ago.  
  
“Bet your ass, I am. Anyway, getting a hand-job is one thing, making out’s another,” Xander adds, because a guy’s just gotta draw a line in the sand. A line beyond which two dudes do not make out with each other.  
  
“Xander. . . .” Parker’s at the other end of the room, one moment, then all over Xander’s bed - all over  _Xander_  - like a cheap suit the next.  
  
“And on that note, I think it’s time for you to go home.” Normally, Xander can easily overpower Parker, push him away, but pot makes the little scuzz clingy and kinda strong.   
  
The fact that he doesn’t  _want_  to push Parker away probably isn’t helping.  
  
“Come on, we can’t - my old man’s gonna catch us. He’d kill you then me.” Xander shivers and it has nothing to do with Parker’s tongue in his ear.  
  
“Your dad’s piss-drunk; he won’t wake up till morning and you know it.” Warm breath in his ear and on his neck and now Xander’s shivers have nothing to do with Tony Harris.  
  
“We shouldn’t -” No real reason not to, but it nags at Xander’s for some reason. Another hit off the happy-pipe oughta cure that.  
  
“Remember how good Graham said it felt when Lisa went down on him?” Parker’s eyes are suddenly right above his own, just as red and glazed-looking as Xander’s eyes  _feel_.  
  
“Yeah.” Of course he did. Parker’s older brother rarely acknowledged Xander’s or Parker’s existence, but the few times he did, he told awesome stories about sex and/or drugs.  
  
“I can make you feel really good,” Parker breathes. He’s hard and it’s making Xander hard.  
  
“I already feel good, man.” And why exactly is he turning down a blow-job?  
  
“I’ll make you feel even better. I could - you know, go down on you, if you want,” Parker offers coyly. His crush so pathetically obvious, saying yes’d feel like conferring a favor.  
  
“Jeezyou’reamanipulitivecreep!” Xander exhales explosively as Parker snakes a hand down his jeans and goes straight for the goods. He very nearly drops the pipe and manages to ash Parker’s wrist.  
  
“Shit! Watch it, that hurt!” Yet Parker’s hand, warm, surprisingly strong, hasn’t stopped for a second.  
  
“You puss, no it didn’t.”   
  
“Gee, Xander, can I  _please_  suck your cock, now? Please,  _please_?”   
  
“The sarcasm might almost be brutal if you weren’t stroking me off,” Xander notes.  
  
“What happened to ‘oh, no, Park, my dad’ll catch us, Park’?”  
  
What, indeed? If there’s an answer, it went AWOL when the last of Xander’s brain migrated south.  
  
“Either drop, or fuck off and lemme get some sleep.” And in case Parker isn’t getting the message, Xander flops one, barely responsive arm up so he can push down on Parker’s head. Big, sad, anime-eyes blink soulfully at him.   
  
“Are you on, like, hand-job autopilot?” Xander’s guffawing and thrusting alternately. “Go, Speed! Go!”   
  
“Why do you have to be such an asshat?” Parker is pouting and the stroking has stopped.  
  
“Just drawn that way, I guess. Don’t stop.” Xander covers Parker’s hand, tries to make it move again, but no dice. There’s slight squeeze-age, but no stroke-age.  
  
“Gimme a reason not to?” Parker’s actually  _pouting_ , now.   
  
“What the hell do you mean  _reason_? Just  _do_  it, come on, you promised!”   
  
When Parker’s smug, he looks like a demented angel. “I will if you make out with me.”  
  
The squeezing is good - fucking  _heavenly_  - but not enough.   
  
“Fine, whatever,” Xander says with ill-grace. Parker immediately leans up kisses him, as if he’s kissed a thousand other guys and Xander’s no big challenge. There’s tongue-ing and licking and sucking; it’s slippery, wet and wonderful. It’s the first time Xander’s ever kissed anyone and if  _this_  is what Parker can do with his mouth while making out, how would it feel to have that mouth on his dick?  
  
The quick mental image that flashes through his mind is  _more_  than enough.  
  
“Oh, shit -!” And it’s all over for Xan-the-Man, thank you and good night. He’s shooting his last five, unbaked brain cells all over Parker’s hand and wrist.   
  
When he can open his eyes again, is capable of rational thought again, he giggles at the surprised, frustrated look on Parker’s face.  
  
“Jesus Christ, you’re such a jerk! You coulda waited for me - or warned me!” Parker wipes his hand on Xander’s shirt then stands up, disappearing from Xander’s view. The door to Xander’s room opens; a few seconds later, the door to the bathroom slams shut.  
  
 _Yeah, whatever,_  Xander thinks as he snuggles down into his pillow and closes his eyes.  _But you’dve still dropped for me. You’re crushing on me so bad, you’d do just about anything I told you to do, isn’t that right?_  
  
Xander smiles. Every muscle in his body feels way more relaxed than it has in days and that all-over-tingle beats the shit out of pot, anyday.  
  
 _Parker Abrams has his uses. . . ._  
  
Before he can finish that thought, Xander’s asleep. He doesn’t hear his bedroom door ease open or the lock on it snick shut.  
  
Doesn’t even twitch when Parker crawls into bed next to him.  
  
  
 **Fifteenth**  
  
“Xan, come on. . . we’ll go get a couple of burgers from the Doublemeat Palace, bike out to Ten-High Bluff and. . . . “ Parker trails off but it doesn’t take a cryptologist to figure what  _and_  is.  
  
“I’m dead, man. Been up since four this morning.” Xander flops backwards on the bed and is immediately draped in a blanket made of warm, cuddle-y Parker.  
  
“I stole some X from my brother,” Parker wheedles like the world’s worst Afterschool Special.  
  
“One day he’s gonna catch you and cut your throat, like on  _NYPD Blue_.”  
  
“Dude, have you  _met_  Graham? He’s not that kinda dealer. Anyway, he knows I steal shit from him sometimes; as long as I don’t take too much, he doesn’t care.” Parker’s face hovers over Xander’s own. “Look, we don’t have to go all the way out to the Bluff. We’ll just chill out here. Get high, get some food, fuck around.”  
  
“Ah, Friday night in the trailer park.”  
  
“Fuckin-a, baby.” Parker sighs and snuggles closer to Xander, tucking his head into the crook of Xander’s neck. “Fuckin-a.”  
  


*

  
  
_Yep, Friday night in the trailer park,_  Xander thinks a few hours later. He can barely muster the irony that should go with the thought. They’d never stirred from Parker’s bed, just made out and dozed off.  
  
 _We’re so motivated._    
  
The pleasantly cozy Parker-blanket makes concentration impossible.  
  
“You should spend the night here.” Parker’s a world-class-champeen cuddler; Xander’s hard and soft at the same time. They’ve only rarely spent the entire night with each other since they started screwing around. That’s another one of those lines-in-the-sand Xander will have to be dragged across, kicking and screaming.  
  
“Mm. Nah, paper route again this morning.”   
  
“Stay with me? Please?” Nuzzle-licks and the puppy-eyes-of-doom.  
  
“Park -”  
  
“Graham’s out all night and mom doesn’t give a shit what we do.”  
  
Despite himself, Xander’s curious. “You sound like you’re about to die when you come. What the fuck does she think I’m doing to you?”  
  
“She thinks you’re giving me the  _bad touch_ ,” Parker whispers and pulls Xander’s hand to his crotch.  
  
Then they’re laughing and kissing and groping around on Parker’s messy bed. Then dipshit has to go and ruin the mood.  
  
“Xander - I love you.”  
  
Lately, every time they get hot and heavy, he trots out the  _Xander-I-love-you_  wackiness. But If it’s not true - and likely it isn’t, everyone knows Parker Abrams is a dyed-in-the-wool liar - why does he bother saying it? He’s already leading Xander around by the cock, so -  
  
It could be true-ish. . . and Xander’s not sure how he feels about that, other than mildly wigged.  
  
“Don’t start that again, Park, please.” He closes his eyes as Parker's pushes up his shirt and kisses his chest.  
  
“I don’t care if it makes me queer.”  
  
“ _If?_ ” Xander snorts. “You’re a citizen of three dollar bill country, buddy.”  
  
“So? Nothing wrong with that.” Parker’s hands and tongue are working together in a tag team of naughtiness.  
  
“If you live  _here_ , there is.” Hands and tongue both stop, causing Xander to open tired eyes. What he sees makes him groan: “Shit, not the puppy-eyes-of-doom, again. You do have more than the  _one_  facial expression, right?”   
  
Parker laughs and kisses him. The kiss is surprisingly lacking in tongue, but it’s still. . . nice. “The hell are you so worried about? My mom knows about us, I’m pretty sure Graham does and they don’t give a shit.”  
  
“That’s ‘cause they’re fucked up all the time. They wouldn’t care if their hair was on fire.”  
  
“And your dad’s the picture of fucking sobriety?” Parker looks offended and ready to argue, which means no nookie  _and_  no sleep.   
  
Time to run interference.  
  
“No, he’s a drunk and a mean, evil bastard. He  _looks_  for reasons to lay into me and if he finds out I’m gay -” The concept is so scary it makes Xander shudder. Parker rubs his chest soothingly.  
  
“You do realize you just admitted you’re gay, right?”   
  
“I - you - fuck, just shut up and go to sleep.” Xander’s still half-hard, but too confused for sex. He wonders if he’s finally gone all-the-way crazy.  
  
“You’ll stay with me? For the whole night?” Another glance into Parker’s eyes and the confusion somehow triples. Parker’s eyes aren’t lying, they’re - needing and wanting.  
  
And if that thought - and the strange, warm-gooey feeling Parker’s anime-eyes makes him feel - doesn’t signal a mutual jaunt in three-dollar-bill country, Xander doesn’t know what does.  
  
“Yeah.” Xander reaches up to brush Parker’s hair out of his face. “But only till four, then I gotta go, or Snyder'll have my ass.”   
  
“Four’s good.”   
  
There’s more kissing and even more snuggling, until they both yawn at the same time. By unspoken agreement, they lay off the naughtiness and just chill. After fighting the urge for a few seconds, Xander kisses the top of Parker’s head. His hair always smells nice.  
  
Even with constant showering, how can a  _guy_  always smell so  _good_?   
  
“You just sniffed my hair. You are  _so_  my boyfriend. You know that, right?” Parker’s voice is more asleep than awake. He sounds all cute and sleepy and Xander’s feeling that warm-gooey sensation in his chest again. It could be heartburn or TB, but Xander holds out no such hope.  
  
“Shut up and go to sleep, dipshit.”  
  
Am _I his boyfriend?_  
  
Three dollar bill country? Dead ahead.  
  
  
 **Sixteenth**  
  
Spike glances at the coffee maker, willing it to  _move it’s arse_ , for Christ’s sake, when Xander clears his throat.   
  
If Spike’d had his coffee, he’d have been startled. As it is, he merely grunts acknowledgement.  
  
“Um. . . I know it’s kinda corny, Spike, but I, uh -”  
  
Spike turns to look at the boy, has to squint through his lack of sleep and lack of contact lenses. Xander’s puppy-brown eyes are wide and skittery; he’s stuttering as if he’s done something wrong, though Spike can’t imagine what. The boy’s manners are better than anyone’s, save Rupert’s. In the months since Xander’d come to New York, Spike hadn’t had to discipline - _there’s a bloody laugh, if I’ve ever heard one_  - him once.  
  
Bounce-bounce-bounce, goes the little brother.  
  
 _I haven’t even gotten a whiff of morning coffee, yet and the boy’s already all over the place,_  Spike thinks ruefully.  _We cannot be related by blood_.   
  
“Quit y' jittering, haven’t had m’ caffeine, yet, have I?” Spike tries to sound gruff, but can’t help the small smile that curves his lips. He’s smiled more in the past seven months than he had in the seven years preceding them. “Just spit it out, luv. You know I don’t bite. Much.”  
  
Xander grins goofily and nervously; his blush is bright under the very last of his SoCal tan. Now, Spike’s really curious.  
  
“I just - think you’re the coolest guy - the coolest  _brother_  in the world and, well, thank you for letting me live with you guys.”  
  
Despite the early hour, lack of coffee - or cigarettes; Angel likely took their last pack with him when he left for work - Spike’s heart swells, like the Grinch’s and oh, yeah. He’s well and truly wrapped around the boy’s little finger. Which should bother him a great deal, but he can’t seem to care.  
  
“Nothing to thank me for. I’ve told you time and again, pet, you’re family. Couldn’t let any brother of mine live with that drunken sod in that dank hellhole you grew up in.” Spike looks away, out the kitchen window. He doesn’t want Xander to see the helpless rage in his eyes. “I only wish I’d known about you before last year. . . .”  
  
 _Wish I’d thought to look for mum, sooner. . . could’ve watched you grow up, could’ve had someone to take care of. . . ._  
  
A warm hand touches Spike’s left shoulder, another closes on his right arm, and he’s being pulled into a bear hug.  
  
“Thank you,” Xander whispers softly, his breath warm in Spike’s hair. Spike shivers.  
  
“Xan, didn’t I just say -?”  
  
“Thank you for being real and for - for coming to save me. I love you.”  
  
“I - love you, too.” The first time Spike’s said it since - Drusilla. The truth of it resounds in his entire being, the rightness of it. In that moment, he understands something he’d only grasped at before:  
  
Xander’s  _his_. He’s family in a way that Rupert isn’t, that Angel isn’t.  
  
“I missed the first fifteen years, pet, but that’s over and done with. I will always be here for you. No matter what,” Spike says, stroking the boy’s back. There’s some shaking and shivering and Spike can’t tell which of them it is.   
  
“Oh, man.” Xander’s letting go and backing away. His face is flushed and upset. “I - gotta go, don’t wanna be late for school.”  
  
“Yeah, sure - you okay, Xan?” It’s too early for Spike, he can’t really process what’s going on, why Xander should look so distressed, why he should be swiping at his eyes.  
  
“I’m cool, I’m just gonna go.” Xander snags his napsack and gives Spike a trembly smile. “I’m gonna stay at Damon’s tonight so you and Angel can have some Xander-free time, ‘kay? Happy Valentine’s Day.”  
  
He’s out the door before Spike can formulate a coherent response. But at least the coffee’s done.   
  


*

  
  
Leaning on the door to the apartment, Xander takes a deep breath and looks down at the red envelope in his hand. After a few moments, he tears it up and crams the pieces in his pocket.  
  
 _Guys don’t give their brothers Valentine’s Day cards, anyway._  
  
He runs downstairs before he misses his bus.  
  
  
 **Seventeenth**  
  
“I think you should bleach your hair platinum.” Xander is slouching on one end of the couch, watching Spike watch tv.  
  
Spike, drags his eyes away from the screen to look at his grinning brother. “Been there, done that, luv. Liked my natural color, better.”  
  
“ _Blue_  is your natural color? What are you, a smurf?”  
  
“Oi! Smurf  _you_ , tosser! Just so happens I prefer blue to m’ natural color, so there.”  
  
“Whatever you say, Punky Blue-ster.”  
  
“I have no problem with killing you in your sleep, whelp.”  
  
Xander and Spike mock-glare at each other, then start laughing at exactly the same moment. When their quality, prime-time viewing comes back from a commercial break -  _The Real World_ , because Spike likes to poke fun at the  _yobbos_  they cast - Xander moves closer to Spike. By the time The Real World goes off, Xander’s half-asleep with Spike’s arm around him.  
  
It’s good.  
  
Then Angel gets home. He looks pissed-off and extra broody.  
  
“Oi, poofter? Brought me a Valentine’s Day pressie, then?” Spike asks, not even glancing up from the tv.  
  
“You’re not my wife, Spike.” Even the way Angel hangs up his coat is tense, choppy, angry.  
  
“And I never will be if you keep forgetting me on Saint Valentine's Day, luv.”  
  
Xander starts snickering and Spike swats his arm, but his own mouth is twitching suspiciously when he finally looks up at Angel, who’s ignoring them both. He goes into the kitchen, re-emerges with a beer, then disappears into his and Spike’s bedroom, shutting the door.  
  
“Maybe I shouldn’t have laughed?” Xander looks at Spike apologetically.  
  
“Don’t think you're what's eatin' at him, pet. Never fear, Spike’ll set things right.” Spike sighs and stands up, worried eyes on his bedroom door.  
  
“You always do.”  
  
When Spike turns to look at him long and carefully, Xander makes sure his eyes are glued to the tv, once again.  
  
“Guess this is good-night, then.” There’s a question in Spike’s voice and Xander doesn’t look up.  
  
“Yeah, hey, should I maybe go stay over at Damon or Ricky’s? It  _is_  Valentine’s Night and after the horrors of last year. . . .” Xander trails off and makes a face.  
  
“Nah, don’t bother; if Angel’s in one of his moods, you’ll be legal before I see the long-nine, again,” Spike mutters, stalking off toward the bedroom.   
  
“TMI, Spike.” Personally, Xander thinks that once Angel gets an eyeful of that loose-hipped saunter, all bets are off.  
  
“Just furthering your education, luv.” There’s a chuckle in Spike’s voice that makes Xander smile.  
  
“The noises that come from you guys’ bedroom continues to traumatize me.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll remember you said that when you bring  _your_  first boyfriend home, Xan.” Spike calls, opening the door to his bedroom. Angel’s voice, on the phone with someone, drifts out and Xander grimaces.  
  
“Happy Valentine's Day, luv, see you in the morning!”   
  
The door shuts gently.   
  
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spike.”  
  
  
 **Eighteenth**  
  
“Who is it?”  
  
It’s 2:37 in the morning and he has to be up in less than four hours.  
  
“It’s me, Angel.”  
  
He closes his eyes and leans his head against his front door. Even with the tinny, poor sound quality, the need in that husky voice is enough to make him hard. He knows it’s wrong, knows that they said they would end this, stop torturing each other, but his body doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass.  
  
He unlocks the door then pushes the ‘talk’ button on the intercom  
  
“Come on up, Xander.  
  
  
 **Nineteenth**  
  
“Come on, Spike, harder. . . . “   
  
 _God, he’s beautiful. . ._ Spike thinks, taking a moment to gaze possessively at the body in front of him: the back arched and pale in the soft moonlight, arms straining, hands planted on Rupert’s desk.  
  
 _Manchester United, Manchester United, Manchester United!_  This little mantra has been the secret of Spike’s fabled endurance over the entire course of his sexual history, but it almost never works when he’s with Xander. He’s gonna have to come up with a new -  
  
“Spike! Damnit,  _move_!”  
  
“Shh!” Spike hisses and bites Xander’s shoulder. “Wanna wake up the whole bloody house?”  
  
The only reply he gets is harsh breathing and a demanding push back against him.  
  
“You’re bloody aggressive for a bottom, luv -” one fast, hard push in and Xander’s groaning, shaking almost as much as Spike. The lamp on the desk shakes and rattles, but doesn’t roll, thank goodness.   
  
“I’m gonna be so sore, tomorrow. Every time I move, I’m gonna ache and I’ll remember this, remember you fucking me over our father’s desk -”  
  
“Fuck, pet!”  _Manchester-bloody-United! Manchester-bloody-United!_    
  
“Harder -”  
  
Spike does his best to comply and is rewarded with fever-hot muscles clenching around his cock and ever-increasing groans. Those groans are rapidly turning into hoarse, choked cries.   
  
He takes one hand off Xander’s hip and covers the boy’s mouth because no matter how good it is -  _damn_  good - the last thing he wants is for wicked stepmum, or God-forbid  _father_ , coming downstairs and catching them fucking in the study.  
  
Xander’s lips are moving against Spike’s palm, whispering the same thing over and over.  
  
 _Love you love you love you love you love you. . . ._  
  
Xander wants.  _Needs_. Responds to Spike’s every touch with an intensity that’s intoxicating and addictive. Being in Xander is like coming home, like claiming his property, like salvation, like damnation - like dying, in a way.  
  
Any claims to decency he’d ever had are called into question by every gasp he wrings from his brother’s shaking body.  
  
When all is said and done, Xander is Spike’s, never been anyone else’s. And Spike knows, now, that he’s never been anyone’s but Xander’s.   
  
Simple, really.  
  
But only for as long as the afterglow.  
  
  
 **Twentieth**  
  
“How is he?” Adam asks, stepping quietly into past the curtain.  
  
Lorne leans back into Adam’s arms with a relieved sigh. “Cried himself to sleep about forty-five minutes ago, wouldn’t say a word. . . what do you think happened?”  
  
Adam frowns and watches Xander toss and turn fitfully in the hospital bed for a few minutes before answering. “I imagine he and Spike fought.”  
  
“What else is new, peach-pit?” Lorne freezes then looks back over his shoulder at Adam. The deep green eyes are wide and horrified. “Wait - no. Butch would never raise a hand to the kid, right?”  
  
If Lorne is looking for answers and reassurance, Adam has neither to give. Simply holds him tighter, offering quiet support.  
  
“The nurse said he staggered in just before sunup, bruised, sheet-white and delirious. Turns out he was short a couple pints of blood.” Lorne shudders in Adam’s arms, then turns to face him. “They think he was beaten, then stabbed in the neck with a meat fork.”  
  
“My God.”  
  
“Tell me about it!" Lorne hides his face under Adam's chin, breathin in the scent of aftershave, soap and sweat. "I haven’t been able to reach Spike on his cellphone, but Rupert and Ethan are on their way from London. I called them right after I called you.”   
  
“Since we don’t know who did this, one of us should be here with him at all times, until he’s released. And sending him back to his apartment doesn't seem like a good idea. Perhaps he should stay with us.”  
  
“Uh, honey-bunny -" Lorne glances at Xander, who, besides the rainbow-spectrum of bruises that covered him, looked exhausted and miserable. Even in his sleep. "He may wanna go home with Rupert and Ethan.”  
  
“That is highly unlikely.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re right. . . poor little lambkins. . . ." Lorne murmurs into Adam's shoulder. "But I’ve never seen a person as obsessed with someone else’s happiness as our bleached bad-boy is with Xander’s.” Lorne’s saying. Adam can’t remember ever hearing him this sound upset about  _anything_ , before now. “Spike could never do something like this. He’d die before he’d harm a hair on Xan’s head. You know that, I know that - Xander knows it, I hope.”  
  
“Then why are our names on Xander’s emergency card instead of Spike’s?” Adam could categorically list a dozen different hypotheses on what could drive Spike to commit such an act of violence. But like Lorne, he finds it an unpleasant matter to contemplate. He settles for a sigh and: “People change, Lorne.”  
  
“Not this much, cupcake. Not this much.”  
  
Adam somehow refrains from stating the obvious; that maybe Spike had been a sadistic monster all along, and they simply hadn’t known.  
  
  
 **Twenty-first**  
  
February thirteenth dawns sunny and unseasonably warm.  
  
Xander and Jesse are the only ones to attend Tony Harris’s funeral, other than the reverend, Xander’s drunk Uncle Rory and Xander’s drunk Uncle Rory’s tipsy, sixth wife.  
  
Afterward, drunk Uncle Rory and tipsy Aunt Mindy drive them back to the trailer park, then peel out, off to Lake Tahoe.  
  
Cleaning out the sparsely-decorated trailer is easy, monotonous work. Xander doesn’t cry or even say much, just works steadily until well after sundown. Jesse’s pre-law, not pre-med; he doesn’t know what a silent-Xander signifies, if anything.  
  
That night, they have dinner at the Doublemeat Palace, just off the Interstate. They keep the conversation light, inconsequential. There’s plenty of eye contact, always lingering. Xander jokes and flirts smoothly.   
  
When Jesse’s hand covers Xander’s on the garishly-painted table, it stays there.  
  
They walk back to the trailer, holding hands, not speaking. Instead of immediately unlocking the door, Xander looks at Jesse expectantly, grinning.   
  
Seconds later, they’re making out on the front step.  
  
“Some one’s gonna turn a hose on us, screech.” Xander is laughing between kisses, sliding his hands under Jesse’s shirt.   
  
“Or beat the shit out of us, scuzz. . . we should take this inside.” Jesse nudges Xander’s legs apart with his knee and pushes him against the front door.  
  
“I dunno, I kinda wanna find out how sturdy this door is. . . .” Xander pulls Jesse into a kiss, but slips the house keys into his hand. “You wanna spend the night?  
  
“I - yeah, that’d be - Jesus, man, that’d be so great.” Jesse leans back just enough to look into Xander’s eyes. “Are you sure?”   
  
Xander smiles and it’s predatory, more teeth than tenderness. “Dunno. Are  _you_  sure?”  
  
“I am, actually, so - don’t mess with my head, Xan. Just - tell me you want me and  _mean it_. . . or wish me a good-night.”   
  
“I -” Xander’s smile turns self-mocking, sad, bitter; a little scared. “I want you and I mean that.”  
  
Before Jesse can question, or voice his lingering doubts, Xander’s all tongue and hands and impatient grinding.  
  
“Fuck me, Jesse.”  
  
“Xan -”  
  
“Do I have to get my  _ass notarized_? I said I’m sure, now fuck me!”  
  
So Jesse does.   
  
He’s more nervous than he’d thought he would be and their first time together is over embarrassingly quick. The second time is much better, Jesse lasts a lot longer. He figures he’s doing  _something_  right if Xander’s moaning - liberally mixed with profuse and breathy swearing - is any indication.  
  
It’s the best night of his life. Of course; he’s with Xander.  
  
By 2am, they’re both exhausted, but stay up talking until the sky gets light, reminiscing about school and life and Star Trek. Tony Harris doesn’t come up, even indirectly, until they’re barely able to keep their eyes open.  
  
“I’ve lost a lot in my life, it feels like. People that I've loved. Including you,” Xander murmurs into the comfortable silence. His face is warm and stubble-y on Jesse’s chest. “I can’t lose anymore, Jess. I think I’d go nuts.”  
  
Jesse strokes Xander’s back, feels the tension immediately flow out of formerly tight muscles. Files that trick away for future reference. “Xan. . . .”   
  
“Maybe wind up a mean, old drunk like Tony. I don’t wanna be like that, Jess. I can’t.”  
  
In the face of that statement, Jesse’s doubts evaporate. He knows an impending kiss-off when he hears one. He also knows what he has to do. What  _they_  have to do.  
  
“Come back to Sunnydale, with me.”  
  
Xander sits up, shock and disbelief all over his face. He looks painfully young. “Whuh?”  
  
“Come back with me. . . live in sin with me. Go shopping for curtains with me. Buy a toy poodle with me.” Jesse grins. “Fuck me nightly, or even hourly. Stay with me.”  
  
“But - I -”   
  
“You won’t lose me, I promise. And I don’t want to lose you, again, either.” It can’t be said any plainer than that.  
  
Xander’s gaze is bright and intense, like the sun, but Jesse resists the urge to glance away. If he could handle the ice in that gaze all those years ago, he can handle the heat in this one, now.  
  
Xander shudders, his eyes closing as he hitches in a deep, shaky breath. “Oh, God, Jesse.” And Jesse’s got got two armsful of construction worker, clinging to him and shaking like a leaf.  
  
“It’ll be okay, Xan, I’m not lettin’ go, this time,” Jesse murmurs into hair the same shade of brown as his own. “You’re mine, now and I’m keepin’ ya, hear me?”  
  
Xander nods and sniffs.   
  
“Believe me, scuzz?”  
  
Xander squeezes Jesse tighter, if that’s possible.  
  
“Good. Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”  
  
Long after Xander’s fallen asleep in his arms, Jesse lays awake well into Valentine’s Morning, thinking, planning. Basking.  
  
When he leaves the trailer park, it’ll be for keeps, this time.   
  
And Xander’s leaving with him.  
  
  
 **Twenty-second**  
  
In the chaos of the attack,  _The Bronze_  empties out like helium escaping a balloon.   
  
Everyone, it seems, is either running from the  _vampires_  or from the tiny black woman with the weird accent and the sidekicks (The timid-looking blonde woman is hurling  _firebolts_  left and right and the the cornfed-looking guy in fatigues is staking anything with fangs).  
  
 _The Bronze_  is in a state of fear and flux.   
  
That includes Xander and “Jesse”. In a dark hallway, somewhere between the bathrooms and the stockroom, their own, much quieter drama plays out.  
  
“Please. . . .” Xander doesn’t know what he’s pleading for; his back is to the wall and there’s nowhere for him to run. He’s not sure he  _would_  run, even if he could.   
  
The vamp grins around a mouthful of fangs and Xander shudders. The ridges and yellow eyes melt away, replaced by the first face Xander had ever loved. The face he  _still_  loves, in spite of everything.  
  
“Oh, Jess,” he whimpers, closing his eyes, waiting for the end. He hopes the demon makes it quick. The sooner it’s over, the sooner he can be wherever the  _real_  Jesse is.  
  
“Xander, look at me. . . you know I’d never hurt you, right?” The vamp grabs Xander’s hand, pulling it up to cold and familiar features. “I promised you you’d never lose me, that I'd never let you go again. I’m gonna keep my promise.”   
  
 _God, it even says things Jesse would say. . ._ Xander thinks as he automatically strokes the vampire's face. It nuzzles into the touch like a happy kitten, it’s eyes slipping closed in pleasure.  
  
“I love you, Xander.”  
  
“But you’re a vampire, Jess.” To state the obvious.  
  
“Yeah, but I’m not a monster! I still think and feel and - want. God, Xander, I  _want_.” When it’s eyes open, they’re flickering between yellow and brown. “I’m gonna live forever, and I won't be alone.”  
  
“What are you saying?” But Xander knows. . . he knows. In the past few weeks, he’s gotten a crash-course in all-things-Sunnydale.  
  
“You know what I’m saying. I wanna make you like me.” The flickering eyes settle on pale brown and the ridges that ripple under Xander’s gentle touch are barely more than a suggestion.  
  
“I love Jesse and you’re not Jesse. You’re a demon, a  _thing_. You’re - you’re not him and I don’t want you -"  
  
But the vampire’s kissing him already; it’s mouth is cool, wet and tastes like pennies; tastes like  _Jesse_. A slick, wicked tongue darts into Xander’s mouth then out, again, teasing.  
  
“I’m gonna make you mine forever. Don’t you want that?” The vampire is kissing it’s way down Xander’s jaw, to his ear, then his neck. “I can give you  _forever_. We’ll never feel guilty or unhappy ever again. Whatever we want -  _whoever_  we want is ours.” The vampire’s cool, solid weight pins Xander to the wall.  
  
“Fuck,” he moans helplessly, betrayed by his body and Jesse’s. In the awful weeks since Jesse’s disappearance, Xander’s felt half-dead. It seems fitting the demon inhabiting his boyfriend’s corpse is about to take care of that pesky, still-alive half.  
  
“You smell so  _good_ , Xan. . . wanna taste you so bad. Can I?” Jesse is hard and getting aggressive, like always.   
  
"Y-yes. . . ." Xander knows he's chosen death. But life is the only thing Xander has left to lose, anyway.   
  
"Gonna make you feel so good, Xan. Xan, Xan, Xan. . . ." He’s panting Xander’s name like always. Even the sharp pain and dreamy lassitude of fangs sinking in and draining Xander is - familiar, somehow.  
  
Coming so hard it feels like dying? Also very familiar.  
  
But  _actually_  dying?  _That’s_  new.   
  
When Xander opens his mouth to say so, the world goes black.


	14. The Ballad of Spike and Angel 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years before the events of the Family-verse, two years after the events of "Lost." William/Wesley and William/Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All human AU.

“William?”  
  
“Hmm?” William looks up from the inventory and blinks. Rupert smiles at him. “It’s almost six. Go home, get freshened up for dinner.”  
  
William suppresses a smile and goes back to the long columns of numbers. “Is Her Majesty coming over, again, or just one of the minor nobility?”  
  
“Pillock.” William grins at the fond exasperation in his father’s voice. “You know very well the Wyndham-Pryces are joining us for dinner.”  
  
“Good Lord, dad! Don’t tell me you’ve got those poor, dear people in on your little plan!”  
  
“And what plan would that be?” Rupert busies himself with shelving a few books.  
  
“Your nefarious plan to - to  _marry me off_  to Wyndham-Pryce, the younger!”  
  
“Piffle.”  
  
William rolls his eyes. “Don’t piffle me. And don’t think your little scheme is going to work, either. I quite enjoy being a bachelor. I’m not going to get tied down - and certainly not this young.” Though he had, at one point, been willing to tie himself down forever, and at an even younger age.  
  
To say  _that_  had ended disastrously was to understate by several large degrees of magnitude.  
  
“Be that as it may, Ethan and Mrs. McArdle went to some trouble to arrange this little get together and they would appreciate it if you at least ran a comb through that bird’s nest you call hair.”  
  
“‘S not a bird’s nest!” William runs a hand through his wavy, overlong hair. “I prefer to think of it as Byronic.”  
  
Rupert’s amused snort drifts out from amongst the stacks. William smiles and closes the ledger. Wouldn’t do to look less than his best for the Wyndham-Pryces.  
  


*

  
  
William sits quietly throughout dinner, listening to his father talk shop with Mr. Wyndham-Pryce while Ethan charmed Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce. Every once in awhile, Wyndham-Pryce, the younger, would shoot him an amused and heated glance that William would return with a smile that was half leer.  
  
He doubts these glances and half-leers escape Rupert’s notice and he  _knows_  they don’t escape Ethan and Mrs. Wyndham-Pryce’s.   
  
As coffee is being served in the den, Wyndham-Pryce, the younger excuses himself, citing an early workday as an excuse. Mr. Wyndham-Price and Rupert were too chummy to really notice and though Mrs. Wyndham-Price made nominal protestations, her son beat a hasty exit with one curious, baby-blue glance at William, who affected polite nonchalance.  
  
After another half-hour of long-winded stories and idle gossip, William says his good nights and makes his way up to his room. It’s been a long night. Too long by half.  
  
When he opens his bedroom door, a lazy drawl drifts out.  
  
“Took you long enough.”  
  
William smiles, shutting the door. His bedside lamp clicks on and a very relaxed, very naked Wyndham-Price, the younger, watches him with smoldering blue eyes.  
  
“You take too many chances, Wes.”  
  
“And you take too few, Will. Now, why are you over there and still dressed when you could be over here, naked and getting fucked into your mattress?” The  _you git_  isn’t said aloud, but heavily implied.  
  
William grins.  
  


*

  
  
“You should come to New York with me.”  
  
William sighs and snuggles into Wesley’s side, runs a finger down Wesley’s chest. “You’re not serious, are you?”  
  
“Perfectly so.”  
  
“Wesley, I thought we agreed there’d be none of that. It’d make our parents entirely too pleased with us,” William murmurs, looking up at Wesley. For once, the amused glint is gone and Wesley’s blue eyes are utterly serious. It rather unnerves William.  
  
“What?”  
  
“We’ve been sneaking around for how long, now?”  
  
“I don’t know, six months or so. . . .” William blushes. He hasn’t been keeping track at all.  
  
“It’ll be one year in December.”  
  
“That’s so?” William asks, leaning over Wesley to rifle through his nighttable. He pushes aside the condoms they don’t even bother with anymore and goes straight for the cigarettes.  
  
“Yes, that’s so.”  
  
“Well, then -” William bats his eyes and nibbles Wesley’s lower lip before kissing him. “Happy anniversary, darling!”  
  
“Be serious, for once,” Wesley murmurs between kisses, pulling William closer. “And don’t start on those things, you know I abhor them.”  
  
“Wretched habit, these. Did you know lung cancer killed John Wayne?”   
  
“William -”  
  
“Wesley, just don’t, please? We agreed from - a year ago, I suppose, that there’s nothing serious about us! And I’ll bloody-well smoke in here if I want, ‘s my room.” William gets up. “Where’d I leave m’ lighter?”  
  
“In the right inner pocket of your dinner jacket.”  
  
“Ta, pet.” That first, sweet lungful of menthol-flavored death is almost enough to drive away the realization that he and Wes sound like Ethan and Rupert.  
  
“Things can change in the course of a year, William.”  
  
“Can they, now?” Through the haze of blue-grey smoke, Wesley’s eyes seem to glow.  
  
“You can’t tell me that the two of us, together like this feels wrong.”  
  
William leers and saunters over to the bed, never breaking eye-contact. “ _Feels_  like I’ll be walkin’ funny for the next three days, actually. But if that’s wrong, baby, I don’t wanna be right.”  
  
The laugh that Wesley’s trying to hold in bubbles out when William tips him a broad stage-wink. “Dear God, you’re ridiculous, sometimes.”  
  
William sticks his tongue out and gets into bed, dropping his lighter on the nighttable. When he stubs out the half-smoked cigarette, Wesley pulls him close, one hand on his arse, the other at the small of his back. Wesley’s cock is hard against William’s thigh.  
  
“Tell me this doesn’t feel right to you, William.” Blue gazes into blue expectantly.  
  
“I - it doesn’t feel  _wrong_.” It never has. Wesley’s fantastic in bed and pleasant to talk with or simply  _be_  with.  
  
“Then come to New York with me. I’m sure Rupert and Ethan will be able to hire a bookkeeper and you can be a kept man in the US.  _My_  kept man. . . .” soft, teasing, open-mouthed kisses and those blue eyes never leave his.   
  
Wesley  _doesn’t_  feel wrong. He feels - safe and comfortable.  
  
Finally, William nods, not trusting his voice. When Wesley smiles and caresses his face, William inclines his head and bites his thumb gently, still not breaking eye contact. Wesley’s hands, fine and surprisingly strong, settle on his hips.  
  
“Ride me.”  
  


*

  
  
“Well. You’re up early.”  
  
“Didn’t go to sleep, did I?” William looks up from his cup of coffee to regard Ethan. The look of amused curiosity he receives is not at all unexpected. Both Ethan and Giles have been giving him variations on that same Look for nearly a year.  
  
“I trust you enjoyed last night?” Ethan picks up his cup of coffee and delicately sips, regarding William through the steam.  
  
“It was all a bit - stiff-upper-lip for me, but yes, I had fun.” William clears his throat.  
  
“Yes. . . the Wyndham-Pryces have their. . . charms, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”  
  
The fond smile in Ethan’s voice is disturbingly self-satisfied.   
  
“They certainly do.” Ethan’s not the only one sounding self-satisfied. William is still pleasantly sore in some rather hard-to-reach places.  
  
“Really, you’ve been sneaking him in and out of here for almost a year. Wesley’s parents and your father think the two of you make a well-matched couple. Why else do you think they keep throwing you two together?”   
  
William rolls his eyes. “Dad just wants someone who’s decent and kind to look after me, take care of me.”  
  
“Is he wrong to?”  
  
“Alright, assuming that I’m too fragile to take care of myself, who says Wesley’s the one I’d want to do so?”  
  
“It wasn’t Trevor Conroy, Eliza Cooke, Kit Bradley, Vijay Seth - all the way back to the charming Dr. Pennington. Why not Wesley? He’s so - likeable and loyal. And corruptible.”  
  
 _Like your father,_  hangs unspoken but heavily in the air. William makes a face. “You  _would_  consider corruptibility a plus. And you must know those others were - flings. Convenience.”  
  
“Even the good Doctor?” Ethan’s dark eyes are inscrutable. As always. Will blushes, but resists the urge to look down. He’s not a child anymore, not so easily intimidated.  
  
“No, Penn was. . . Penn was  _Penn_. In a class all his own.”  
  
“Your father and I never could figure out why you left him.” Ethan’s voice is noticeably less caustic than usual.  
  
It’s a rare invitation from Ethan for soul-bearing. Oddly enough, when Ethan is in a mood to listen without snarking, William feels obliged to share.  
  
“Call it a - difference in philosophies.”  
  
One graceful eyebrow lifts in question. William smiles wryly.  
  
“Let’s just say Penn had no problem hitting me and I had a big problem with being hit.” William shrugs. “I left before anything really bad happened. Nearly let love kill me once. Couldn’t go through that again.”  
  
Ethan blinks thoughtfully, but not before William sees something dark and cold shift in those glittering eyes.   
  
This isn’t the first time William has noticed the darkness in Ethan’s dark eyes, thankfully it’s never been directed at  _him_.   
  
William hopes it never is.  
  
“Anyway, it’s not them, not any of them. Not Penn, not Wesley Windmill-Ponce -” an amused snort from Ethan. “Not even Drusilla. . . it’s me, it’s  _here_. . . I don’t belong here, not anymore. Every day is the same thing, the same people, the same ghosts and -” William gropes for the words that’d been so clear in his mind just minutes before, his hands closing into fists. “The same  _me_. I feel like a known quantity, immutable. Stuck. As if I’ll always be sad, fragile, unstable William. ‘Oh, the poor boy just isn’t wrapped too tightly, is he?’ Bollocks to that. I need to be someone different,  _somewhere_  different.”   
  
William unclenches his fists and lays his hands flat on the table.  
  
“I take it you’ll be leaving with Wesley when he goes to New York, then?”  
  
Rupert’s voice from the doorway startles them both. His slightly squinty eyes are kind and sad in the faint, grey light of dawn.  
  
“Yes.” William smiles shyly. “I - he asked me last night and I’ve said yes.”  
  
“Finally.” Rupert walks over to the stove, giving Ethan a good-morning kiss and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to chase after him with a shotgun, or something equally vulgar. The boy’s been dithering about asking you to leave with him for months.”  
  
William’s eyes dart between his father and Ethan suspiciously. “Obviously we’ve been less discreet than  _I_  thought we were, or. . . how long has he been in cahoots with you two cabbalists?”  
  
Rupert and Ethan share a glance.  
  
“Er, well, he didn’t ask our permission to ask you to go to New York with him till last night,” Rupert offers with a sheepish grin. Ethan’s grin is, as always, self-satisfied and slightly mocking. William sighs, feeling very put-upon.  
  
“I  _am_  a big boy, now. I can take care of my own life, my own relationships - myself. If the two of you weren’t hovering over me like vampire bats, Wesley could have just  _asked me_  and had done with it! He doesn’t need your permission, you know?” William glares. “I suppose he thought he was being charmingly old-fashioned?”  
  
“Well, he -” Rupert starts.  
  
“He’s just playing at being an alpha-male and it’s bloody ridiculous!” William exclaims. Giles and Ethan exchange another glance.  
  
“I take it that means you  _won’t_  be going to New York, after all?” Rupert doesn’t sound altogether unhappy about that. William almost hates to disappoint him.  
  
“Of  _course_  I’m still going! Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna take the piss with Mr. Chivalry for being such a caveman of a git! Where’s the cordless?” William’s up and snatching the aforementioned phone from it’s cradle. He strides out of the kitchen already dialing. In the blessed silence that falls whenever William leaves a room, Rupert sighs, pulling Ethan into his arms.  
  
“I can’t believe we won’t ever hear him ranting at us across the breakfast table again,” Rupert whispers forlornly.  
  
“Poor Ripper. . . not  _never_  again. I’m sure he’ll visit often. And if it’s any consolation, I’m fairly sure he inherited his insanely contrary nature from my side of the family,” Ethan smiles and leans back in Rupert’s arms contentedly.  
  
  


**Six Months Later**

  
  
“Lemme ‘lone. . . said  _no_. . . .”   
  
The evening isn’t going at all well.  
  
Despite it’s auspicious beginnings, everything’s gone thoroughly pear-shaped. William is, dizzy, leaden-limbed and about to be raped against an alley wall. Go figure.  
  
The alley is fuzzy and shiny and spinn-y. William’s body is driftwood. It doesn’t listen to him and neither does his erstwhile date.  
  
“Please, stop -” talking around his own tongue is like trying to talk around a swatch of carpet. Screaming is probably out of the question.  
  
No. . . the evening isn’t going well at all.


	15. The Ballad of Spike and Angel 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See the first part of "The Ballad of Spike and Angel" for summary and notes/warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: All human AU, non-con.

“Wes?”  
  
Wesley doesn’t look open his eyes, doesn’t even sigh. “Yes, William?”  
  
The shuffling/rustling of William turning over to regard Wes with those crystalline eyes.   
  
“At least we got to touch a Van Gogh. That’s something, isn’t it? How many people in your set can say  _that_ , love?”  
  
For a moment, the incredible headache Wesley’s had all evening reaches a painful apex. He opens his eyes and opens his mouth, quite certain that screams unbecoming and unusual for a grown man shall come tumbling out in such profusion and volume, stopping them would be impossible.  
  
What comes out is a snort. Followed by a snicker, several chuckles, then an actual laugh that feels never-ending and wonderful.  
  
“You are bloody insane, William.” This, choked out between near-breathless laughs.  
  
“Not like the security guards were paying attention, eh? Well, they weren’t till  _you_  started screeching  _‘William! For God’s sake! Don’t touch the Van Gogh!’_  like a bloody girl and jostled the damn thing trying to snatch my hand away.” William snuggled into Wesley’s side with a sigh. “The lights and sirens were a complete overreaction, of course. Never seen a pyrotechnics show like that in my life. I’m surprised we didn’t wind up in a - federal prison, or wherever they put foreigners who molest priceless works of art.”  
  
“Yes, I’d say we’re damn lucky.” He tries to scold but the tapering chuckles nix that plan handily.  
  
“Bloody right, we are.” And suddenly, William’s sharp, beautiful face is above his own, silvery-pale in the bright moonlight flooding their bedroom. “Do try and be a little more subtle next time, pet. Something along the lines of - less shouting, more  _not_ -shouting, yeah?”  
  
“Next time?”  
  
Wesley’s sure his face cannot possibly look as shocked and disbelieving as he  _feels_. For a moment, he can do nothing but wonder at the changes in his life over the past fourteen months, changes that led to William and  _here_  and the warm, melty feelings running through his body at his lover’s ridiculous and dangerous antics. Wonders when he’d become so unguarded, so -  
  
 _Light. . . that’s how I feel when I’m with him. Light and fun and silly and - angry, sometimes, exasperated almost_ always _but - he makes me feel alive and vital and I love him._  
  
The laughter has entirely stopped and William is beginning to look worried, now.  
  
“Wesley? Love?” One warm hand comes up to caress Wesley’s face in gentle concern and those  _eyes_  are filled with such insecurity and remorse. “Wes, I’m sorry. I was stupid, I  _shouldn’t_  have touched the painting. I was being a git just because I shouldn’t and I could. I know you put up with a lot of stress from your work, but you shouldn’t have to put up with it in your free time. I’m sorry, really I am, darling, dunno what got into me -”  
  
“William?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
 _You are trouble, William, and nothing but. . . .  
  
Fortunately, I love trouble._  
  
“Do shut up before I toss you out of bed,” Wesley says in his most politely bored tone. But the smile on his face says more and rather loudly. Watching the insecurity and fear on William’s face dissolve into shock, disbelief and fondness, Wesley feels something within him settle for the first time since they arrived in New York City.  
  
“You right bastard.” William’s lips twitch with barely repressed laughter.  
  
Then they’re both laughing and rolling around, mock-tussling. Then William lets Wesley pin him and the game changes entirely.  
  


*

  
  
In the morning, Wesley stands in the kitchen of his new apartment, enjoying the nearly unobstructed view of his adopted city. A grand sight, but not as welcome as the backs of his own eyelids.  
  
 _One of these days, William will have to teach me the art of sleeping in and then we shall see. . . ._  he thinks wryly. Despite the late night last night, he still can’t quell the biological impulse to be awake by seven a.m.  
  
Rubbing his eyes, he turns away from the breathtaking new skyline and opens the refrigerator. A moment’s consideration and he’s taking out a carton of orange juice, smiling as he drinks straight from the carton. It’s a habit his parents and William have tried to break him of.  
  
 _I imagine orange juice on-the-sly always tastes better._  
  
He’s put back the orange juice and is trying to choose between frozen blueberry waffles or frozen french toast for breakfast when the phone rings, startling him. It’s an annoying ring that had immediately set William’s teeth on edge when he first heard it. Wesley reminds himself to change it before Will wakes up.  
  
“Wyndham-Pryce.”  
  
“Hello, Wesley, how are you?”  
  
“Rupert! Hello!” Wesley smiles and leans against the refrigerator, breakfast forgotten. “We're wonderful, how are you?”  
  
“Quite well. Adjusting to daily life without William.”  
  
“In other words, it’s quiet?” Wesley’s laughing, now, scratching his chest. He also reminds himself to remember to clean up before he falls asleep. William’s insistent snuggling, though hard to pry one’s self away from, is necessary unless one wants to wake up itching because of dried -  
  
“Abysmally quiet. None of us have really figured out what to do with ourselves. Poor Mrs. McArdle was afraid we were going to sack her and Ethan’s - gone utterly insane.”  
  
“Mm, yes. And what horribly exotic location is he trying to drag you off to?”  
  
A long-suffering sigh. “Brazil. For  _Carnaval_.”  
  
“You’ll have a wonderful time,” Wesley assures him. A little too well for Rupert’s taste, it seems.  
  
“I trust you’re not speaking from recent experience.” A tinge of disapproval.  
  
“Certainly not,” Wesley murmurs, wondering if last year is really considered “recent”. Or if it matters that William was the one who’d talked him into going.  
  
“Well.” Rupert clears his throat. “Marvelous. I suppose William’s still abed? Never gets up before noon if he doesn’t have to.”  
  
“So I’ve noticed. Of course, he has every reason to sleep in, today. Yesterday, he was caught mauling a Van Gogh.”  
  
“Oh, dear. It was  _The Starry Night_ , wasn’t it? The painting he, er, mauled?”  
  
“Why - yes. That’s astonishing! However did you guess?”   
  
“Took a family holiday in New York when William was eight. We, too, went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Let’s just say that William has  _always_  expressed his - appreciation of Van Gogh’s work. . . please tell me he controlled himself around the Medieval Weaponry section?”  
  
“We were politely asked to leave before we had a chance to tour that particular wing.” Though it’s not his favorite artistic movement, Wesley is suddenly grateful for Will’s impulsive detour into post-Impressionism.  
  
“Splendid. I trust there was no - incident worthy of making the international press.”  
  
“God, I hope not. Though I haven’t checked the NY Times, yet. Or CNN.”  
  
Rupert makes a sound somewhere between a protracted groan and a protracted sigh.  
  
“Well. Other than trying to avoid prison, what have you two been up to? Has he been getting out, looking for work? Have  _you_  been practicing?”  
  
Wesley glances at the bowl of fruit sitting on the kitchen table. With a tiny bit of concentration. . . .  
  
“As often as I can, which isn’t as often as I’d like, but until I get more settled and put more wards in place it can’t be helped.” He frowns and tracks the rate of motion as the apple slowly, steadily rises up and out of the bowl. “And I’ve been so busy until yesterday, I haven’t even stopped to ask William how he’s been filling his days. Such a loving partner I am.”  
  
“Nonsense. Despite his - child-like spontaneity, William  _is_  a grown man. He no doubt understands the move to New York hasn't been for mere sight-seeing and fun.”  
  
“Yes, but I just - feel so terrible lying to him,” Wesley admits, letting the apple drop. He focuses on a small cluster of grapes. Separating four of them from the bunch takes finer control than he’s ever had till very recently.  
  
 _Perhaps I should have some fruit and tea for breakfast._  
  
“It’s not lying, exactly. He thinks you deal in antiquities, and you do.” There’s a loud hiss and their connection fades.   
  
In the space of a breath, Rupert’s banished the static, a handy little trick that Wesley has yet to master, but silently promises himself he will.  
  
“Antique spellbooks, magical items and enchanted objects. . . a rather large omission, wouldn’t you say?”   
  
The grapes are rotating and revolving around each other, now, like small planets, all at different rates of accelerations. Not as impressive as banishing static with one’s mind, but definitely an improvement of his control.   
  
“It can’t be helped, Wesley and you know that.”  
  
Of course Wesley knows that.  _Everyone_ , it seems, knows the extent of William’s limitations except  _William_.  
  
“I’ve always envied that Ethan could talk with you about his sorcery. It seems to me that’s the ideal situation.”   
  
“Ideals don’t exist in a practical world.” Rupert’s tone is short and forbidding. “I don’t suppose William ever mentions his mother.”   
  
This is a statement, not a question.  
  
“Should he be mentioning her? He almost never speaks of his childhood. Getting him to open up about any part of his life before we met is. . . difficult, at best.” Something that bothers Wesley to no end, but the grapes don’t even falter.  
  
“Some of William’s life before you met him was - tragic. The loss of his mother is just one incident in a string of misfortunes. In any event, Ethan and I feel it would be irresponsible to trouble him with - intangibles.”  
  
 _If he could survive Quentin Travers’s pretty, loon of a daughter, I don’t think there’s much William_ couldn’t _handle,_  Wesley thinks. But he can’t say it. It’s not his place to gainsay Rupert Giles or Ethan Rayne. If anyone would know what William can handle, it would be his parents.  
  
“And he’s  _never_  shown any innate talent or interest in the Craft or sorcery?” Wesley’s always found this difficult to believe. How could  _Rupert Giles_ ’s son have no knowledge, no  _inkling_  of the worlds beneath the world?  
  
“None. And that’s the way it must stay, Wesley.” Rupert says with chilling finality.   
  
“Yes. Of course. It’s just that sometimes I want to tell him - share with him all the wonder and beauty he’s missing! I want to share _so much_  - and I can’t! It’s very frustrating and it  _hurts_.” The grapes drift slowly down to the bowl, one at a time; an impressive feat, considering Wesley’s less-than-sanguine state of mind.  
  
“I understand, truly, I do.” Rupert's voice is sympathetic, but unmoved. “But William’s had such a hard time of things - we can’t be sure how well he’d bear up under such knowledge.”  
  
“He’s stronger than you think. Stronger than  _I_  am.”  
  
“That's something neither Ethan nor I care to see tested.”  
  
It seemed that  _that_  was the end of  _that_.  
  
“What if he finds out on his own? This is  _New York City_. You can’t swing a yardstick without hitting a sorcerer or incantatrix or demon - this city is  _crawling_  with demons!”  
  
“Yes, as I recall.”   
  
“I’d imagine that sooner or later, considering the nature of my business and the nature of  _this city_ , he’ll eventually see  _something_ that’ll -”  
  
Wesley squeaks as smooth, warm arms snake around his waist and a face presses into his back.  
  
“It’s Sunday morning, love, and I’m lonely. Come back to bed.” William’s rumbley, rough, early-morning voice energizes Wesley and as always, makes him hyper-aware of every inch of his skin. For a moment he wonders if William heard - or  _saw_  -   
  
But he realizes that if William saw the apparent natural order being upset in his kitchen, on a Sunday morning, no less, the  _son of a bitch!_  would be heard the world over.  
  
“Is that William?” The anxious hope in Rupert’s voice makes Wesley miss his own father in sudden, sharp pangs.  
  
“Er, yes,” he manages as William slides a hand down his tracksuit pants, instantly reviving Wesley’s morning wood. His mind helpfully supplies him with a mental picture of his lover’s favorite housewear: a pair of socks and nothing else. “Uh, shall I p-put him on?”  
  
William makes a petulant  _no_ -sound probably isn’t loud enough for Rupert to hear, then he’s licking, kissing and nibbling Wesley’s back.  
  
Parental exasperation from across the Pond. “I doubt he’s awake enough for a civilized conversation.”   
  
 _I wouldn’t say that. . . ._  
  
“‘S it dad or stepmum?” Will grumbles. Wesley covers the mouthpiece. “Rupert.”  
  
“Buggerfuck.” William suddenly snatches the phone away from Wesley’s ear. “‘Lo, dad. . . yes, we’re settling in just fine. . . yes, the apartment was already furnished, as advertised. . . .” the hand in Wesley’s pants slows momentarily, then William’s finger is tracing the letters of a word down the length of Wesley’s cock.   
  
 _W - I - L_  is all Wesley can follow before he shudders and bows his head, moaning softly from the cruel, feather-light touches.   
  
 _This is so wrong. . . this is so wrong,_  the prissy voice of Wesley’s conscience whines as William grips him possessively.  _And for so_ very _many reasons._  
  
The irresistible instinct to thrust is ever-so-much stronger than a piddling conscience.  
  
“No, I haven’t. . . no, I don’t intend to be a kept man, dad!” A squeeze-pull so hard it’s only barely on the pleasure-side of painful and Wesley nearly comes. Any accidental rhythm his thrusts may have gained is long gone.   
  
“Well, dad, I expect I’ll repay Wesley’s generosity and patience with sex. Lots of mind-blowing, cripplingly strange sex. And in as many different positions as we can think of. . . well, yes, I understood that it was a rhetorical question. . . yes, he’s standing right here. Lord, you should see the faces he making.” William’s knowing purr tickles Wesley’s neck. It’s either laugh or come, so he laughs, earning a wicked tug on his foreskin that practically sends him over the edge.  
  
“Yes, he  _is_  a saint for putting up with my shenanigans.” Wesley can’t see his lover, but he can sense the sarcastic eyeroll. “No, I’m not being sarcastic, dad. No more than usual, anyway. . . .   
  
“We’ve only been here for ten days, dad, and we’re both still trying to get our bearings, but yes, I  _am_  looking for a job - no, dear God in heaven,  _no. Not_  in a rare books shop - I didn’t move to a whole different country just so I could be a  _bookkeeper_  again!”  
  
“ _No_ , there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the honorable, ages-old profession of bookkeeping. No. No - don’t put Ethan on, I can’t talk long - hello, wicked stepmum, how are you. . .? Yes, New York  _is_  a perfect fit. There’s all sorts of lovely fun waiting to be had.” Wesley is pulled back against William just in time for the naughty thrusting and grinding. He desperately wishes for skin to skin contact. Tracksuit pants are evil and made of cursedly thick material.  
  
“Yes,  _such_  fun to be had. . . live music venues and the like. Maybe I’ll join a band - yes, I know that’s not quite the kind of career dad meant. . . yeah.” William laughs heartily, still thrusting against Wesley.   
  
Tracksuit pants are definitely evil. So is William.  
  
 _For all that he grumbles about how interfering Ethan is,_  Wesley's last, functioning brain cell notes.  _William is obviously fond of the man. I’m quite sure the feeling is reciprocated.  
  
I’m also quite sure I shouldn’t be thinking of William’s - stepmum, just now._  
  
“Listen, stepmum, I’ll have to call you later. I’ve got a Wyndham-Pryce, here, that needs some intensive de-stressing, if you follow me - yes, I know I’m as subtle as a freight train. I’ll call you back later today, around five p.m. GMT. Alright. Yeah, poor thing, he’s trembling on the edge - “  
  
Wesley knows with embarrassing certainty that  _he_ ’s the “him” they’re discussing.  
  
“Okay. Yes, of course. ‘Kay, later on, then. Bye.”  
  
“Ethan says I should stop torturing you, love.” Soft, warm lips gently brush against Wesley’s ear and he lays his head back on William’s shoulder so he can look into those mesmeric eyes. The smile he receives is mercilessly wicked.  
  
“But you love it when I torture you, isn’t that right?”  
  
“Will -” It’s a plea and a warning.  
  
“Oh, alright, I’ll do as stepmum says, just this once.” William sighs, giving Wesley a peck on the lips.  
  
There’s a thud that Wesley fleetingly hopes is the cordless phone hitting the kitchen table and not the floor. Then the tracksuit pants are eased down Wesley’s hips in seconds that last exactly half an eternity apiece.  
  
“Now, what have we here?” That drawl is intolerable. Insufferable. In- “Is all this because of  _me_?  _You_  are a keeper, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce.”  
  
“Bastard.” Wesley grits out.  
  
“Language, pet. Language.” William’s grin turns into a leer.  
  
“Evil.” Even more so than the damn pants.  
  
“Now, love! Come for me!” The whispered urgency plus the intensity of William’s ice-blue gaze and Wesley’s closing his eyes as he re-christens their kitchen floor.  
  
He’s still trying to catch his breath as William leans back against the counter, taking a pliant, loose-limbed Wesley with him.  
  
“Good morning, love.” Kisses all over Wesley’s shoulders and neck and wet fingers trailing over his chest and abdomen. William’s still hard, still rocking against Wesley.  
  
“It most certainly is.”   
  
“Missed you while you were gone.”  
  
“You were still asleep.” A surprisingly cogent answer from such a pleasantly lethargic brain.  
  
“You think I don’t wake up when  _you_  wake up?”  
  
“Really?” Such a silly thing shouldn’t please Wesley quite so much, but it does. He blames the endorphins.  
  
“‘Course I do, you slow git.”  
  
“Well, I was going to throw something in the microwave or maybe have some fruit for breakfast, but -”  
  
Smiling, Wesley turns his limp, relaxed body to face William. The anxious, intense expression he finds quells any and all humorous responses and brings him back to Earth immediately.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
William’s smile is tiny and fake. “Just - feel a little drained, is all.”  
  
“Come back to bed, then. You lie back and rest and I’ll take care of this.” William’s eyes dilate as Wesley strokes his erection. Then he shakes his head, pulling out of Wesley’s arms. But before he turns away, Wesley can see that unsettled expression has returned.   
  
If Wesley didn’t know better, he’d swear it was fear.   
  
“No, you make some breakfast, I know you’re starving. I’m gonna have a quick shower then go get the Sunday paper.”  
  
For a moment, Wesley is quite certain William is joking. And that is the exact second William chooses to exit the kitchen without a coy look backwards and an invitation for Wesley join him.  
  
“I love it when you’re moody and insulting, darling. Do have fun in shower, wanking off by yourself.” Wesley sighs, pulling up his pants.   
  
A few minutes later he’s cleaning up the re-christened floor and trying, yet again, to decide what he’ll have for breakfast.   
  


*

  
  
William leans against the bathroom door, eyes tightly shut.  
  
On the backs of his eyelids, the same few seconds of insanity repeats itself, ad infinitum:  
  
 _He peered into the kitchen, getting a lovely view of Wesley’s slim, muscular body limned in light and clad in nothing but over-large pants that sagged off his hips.  
  
William was already grinning and hard and about to startle Wesley into a coronary episode. He really hadn’t learned _anything _from the fiasco at The Met, the previous day._ Want, take, have _is his personal philosophy, and at that moment in time, said philosophy was aimed at his sexy and unaware boyfriend.  
  
Wesley was talking with someone on the phone, though who would ring them up this early on a Sunday -  
  
William tuned into Wesley’s half of the conversation:  
  
“. . . been so busy until yesterday, I haven’t even stopped to ask William how he’s been filling his days. Such a loving partner I am. . . .”  
  
Wesley was either talking with William’s parents or his own, which explained the earliness of the call, but -  
  
Just then a strange motion above the kitchen table caught his eye. . . .  
  
Rising out of the fruit bowl to hover in the air, then swooping in graceful, even, figure-eight patterns, was a large MacKintosh. The sun winked merrily on it’s flawless surface -   
  
\- and watching it with only passing interest was _Wesley _, who suddenly made an abortive gesture with his right hand. The apple dropped gently back into the fruit bowl.  
  
Several green grapes immediately snapped free of the bunch and started revolving around each other.  
  
William backed out of the archway and around the corner, terrified._  
  
Trying to calm himself enough to go into the kitchen and act normal, act like he wasn’t going crazy  _again_ , was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. But it’d paid off, hadn’t it? Everything had been normal, no flying apples or dancing grapes. Just his sweet, kind Wesley chatting on the phone.   
  
 _That_  was reality, not levitating fruit.  
  
“I didn’t see that.  _Any_  of it. The sun was in my eyes and the move has been very stressful for us both. I didn’t get much sleep last night and I  _am_  prone to seeing things - “ William is babbling aloud, automatically grabbing his shampoo and conditioner and stepping into the shower. He turns the spigot on, full blast, not even flinching when frigid water hits his already wilting erection.  
  
In the first months after his suicide attempt - after the six week coma he'd put himself in - William had seen lots of things that weren’t really there. Among them was his long-absent mother and a host of bogeymen, spooks and specters. And Drusilla, of course. Drusilla, most of all.  
  
Nearly three years on and it seems he's seeing things again.  
  
 _Well, I hid it once, despite dad and Ethan's over-protective hovering. I can hide it again, till I_ fix _myself.  
  
Again.  
  
“Not_ gonna be crazy. Not anymore,” he swears between shivers and chatters. Once upon a time, this mantra had been the only thing standing between William and the madness.   
  
“Not anymore. . . not anymore. . . .”  
  
William thinks it’s a shame some things never change.  
  


**Four Months Later**

  
  
Once he’s been dragged beyond the reach of the streetlights, he’s hauled around to face his “date”, who’s nothing but a faint gleam of big, white teeth and odd yellow eyes.   
  
“Lemme ‘lone. . . said  _no_. . . .” comes out sluggish and garbled, but the feeling behind them is no doubt clear.  
  
The only reply Will receives is a flash of those spooky eyes and a punch to jaw that feels like a ton of bricks. The blow knocks some survival instincts into him. He manages a slow and clumsy swing on the would-be-rapist, only to fall forward into laughing boy’s arms. He’s held close and crushingly tight.  
  
“I can fuck you now -” Will tries to shudder away from icy fingers gently stroking his neck. “ -or I can fuck you after you’re unconscious, but I’m  _gonna_  fuck you.” Will’s ears ring as he’s spun around and slammed face first into the wall. A cold, vice-like hand closes around his neck and squeezes so tight, fireworks burst and fade in Will’s useless vision.   
  
“Why. . . ?” The best Will can do is a strangled whisper, but his attacker hears him quite well.  
  
“Well, I reckon it's just more fun this way. Least for me, anyways.” The chuckles sound like growls. Will’s drugged/shocked brain starts putting together clues - cold breath, amazingly strong, glowing yellow eyes, abnormally large teeth - and comes up with a picture that can’t possibly be right -  
  
The only thing keeping him from blacking out is fear of waking up in a hell worse than the one he’s currently in.  
  
“Not real. . . no, no, not crazy. . . not anymore. Can’t  _make_  me crazy.” Extreme fear momentarily clears away the cobwebs and sharpens his tongue. Will’s trying to melt into the clammy, slimy bricks, pull away from the cold, insistent hardness pressing against him. His own slurred and futile  _no_ s are the only things he can hear apart from his attacker’s low growls. Dry, cool breaths puff in his ear.   
  
“Just gimme what I want and no harm’ll come to you. I swear.”  
  
The hand limiting his air supply tends to negate that promise.  
  
He starts to sag down the wall and his attacker laughs, holding him up by the neck easily. Not much taller than Will, but so disproportionately strong. A sudden yank and Will’s jeans have been ripped completely off. They still managed to put up more of a fight than their owner is currently capable of.  
  
“No underwear? See, I  _knew_  there was a reason I picked you, Will.” the soft growl ghosts past Will’s ear like sinister smoke and the world suddenly lurches, grows even darker. The chuckles and taunts seem to recede into the distance, like a choppy, long distance phone call.  
  
And there’s another faint sound; a zipper. . . which is followed by something cold and hard against the burning-hot skin of Will’s hip. Which, in turn, is followed by somethings pointy and sharp pressing against his throat.  
  
“Oh, God.” Will sobs, because in that moment everything slows, becomes horrifyingly clear. He’s going to  _die_. He’s going to die in this alley, and the thing that’s about to rape and murder him is a -  
  
“Vampire. . . .”  
  
“Smile when ya say that, pard,” he -  _it_  - growls or laughs. The possibility of a difference between the two sounds is lost on Will. His entire universe is the sense of  _wrongness_  at his back and about to force it’s way  _in_.


End file.
